


A Grave Mistake

by Skullharvester



Series: Current WIPs [5]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, Vampire: The Masquerade, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Crossover, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27863101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skullharvester/pseuds/Skullharvester
Summary: Astarion is a relatively young vampire who has been serving a cruel sire, the vampire prince named Cazador Szarr, for the past few decades now as his right-hand man and law enforcer.  He thought he had it made as far as things go in the morbid and terrible world their kind inhabit, but as Cazador grows ever more neglectful and abusive, the reality that he is a powerless pawn like everyone else in the city starts to sink in.Feeling horribly mistreated, isolated, and abandoned, Astarion craves a childe, a vampire spawn, to call his own to make the nights a little less lonely.  He knows that it's an awful idea and that he shouldn't, but what else is he to do?  He's convinced himself that he'll be a better sire than Cazador ever was, but will he really or will he only perpetuate the cycle of creating monsters out of a selfish need for love and adoration?
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Current WIPs [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120226
Comments: 40
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you're coming over here to this fanfic from the Baldur's Gate 3 fandom and don't know anything about Vampire: The Masquerade, don't worry about it! I'm a bit of a lore-newb with it myself, but I try to explain the setting and its machinations for those who aren't familiar with it throughout the story as we go along and learn it together with Astarion's new child.
> 
> Enjoy and have fun!
> 
> If you liked this tale, please drop me a kudos and/or a comment to let me know if you'd like to see more!
> 
> Thank you, and have a wonderful night!

Astarion was a man born around 1965, and yet ever since he was turned into a vampire—no, Kindred was the “proper” term, he was told—in the 1980’s, he had taken on the fashion sense and etiquette of an 18th century dandy. His Kindred sire Cazador, Ventrue prince of this city, insisted upon it. Being a man of the 18th century himself, Cazador would have no less for his “most favored” childe.

In the beginning, Astarion felt like a fool in his frills and tailcoats and all other manner of the silly outfits that Cazador would dress him up in like a doll, but in time, he had learned to take enjoyment in wearing the fanciful attire. Perhaps that was the Stockholm Syndrome talking. He had a very love/hate relationship with his sire. It began as love. The kind of love that the young foolishly leaped into with reckless abandon, only to see the numerous red flags they should have spotted much earlier when it was already too late.

Back in the late seventies and early eighties, as Astarion was reaching maturity, he found it difficult to be accepted as a bisexual even though times were beginning to change. He could have chosen to only entertain his interest in the opposite sex for the sake of his own safety and social acceptance, but meeting the older gentleman named Cazador inspired him to explore and embrace his sexuality. The man courted Astarion in such a romantic manner that it dazzled him at the time and Cazador mentored him in just about everything he knew now—anything from love to social graces to history, among many other things that Astarion never learned from school growing up, being the type who played hooky and rarely paid attention in class when he was present.

But now, Astarion was hardly the apple of Cazador’s eye anymore. At best, he was a glorified lapdog—forgotten like a mistress grown old. Cazador was still…decent to him, it was true, but there was nothing that pained someone as vain as Astarion more than being forgotten. All of his needs were being taken care of still to this day, except for the one that meant the most to him: The need to be adored.

As Astarion put on his jewelry—gifts from Cazador given to him back in the “good old days” of their relationship—and adjusted his collar, he prepared himself mentally for what he was about to work up the nerve to do once he met with his sire in his private study upstairs in this elegant manor of his: He was finally going to ask—no, _demand_ —that he be allowed to sire a childe of his own. He was tired of being alone.

* * *

Astarion was so confident in exactly what he was going to say and how he was going to say it when he stepped foot into his sire’s study and marched right up to the writing desk Cazador was seated behind—no doubt in the midst of working on one of his latest pretentious poems—until his sire peered up from his parchment and ink pen at him and curled his lips around his fangs in an enchanting smile that threw him off balance.

Every time that Astarion got it into his head that he was going to tell the man what’s what, Cazador’s commanding presence reminded him of his lowly place beneath him as his servant. Though the words were never said out loud, Astarion knew the truth of his role. They were not partners, who ruled the city together as Cazador once promised, but rather Astarion was his go-to pawn.

Before Astarion could even speak of his own needs, Cazador told his childe of his own. As far as he was concerned, it was ungrateful for his spawn to speak of any “needs”, when he was quite adamant that he gave Astarion more than he deserved. 

“Someone’s been selling drugs to my ghouls, and I need you to discover the source,” he said authoritatively, flicking the edge of the pen against the nail of his thumb. “I can’t have my eyes and ears ambling about my domain dazed and confused when I have enemies lurking in every shadow. Fix it.” With little interest in further discussion, the pallid prince lowered his head, his bright red eyes darting back down to his half-finished poem. 

He behaved as if Astarion had already left the room to do as he was bid. Upon realizing that his childe hadn’t moved a muscle since he gave his command, those eyes veered back up to the young Kindred, now burning with foreboding ire. “ _Was there something you wished to address with me, my childe_?” he asked slowly with an ominous inflection. 

Though Cazador pretended to be a patient man, he was far from it. Astarion knew that every moment he continued to defy his master by standing before him after being given orders was a gamble on his continued existence.

Astarion swallowed, a gesture that he hoped would go unnoticed by the brooding man. “S-Sire, I…” His tongue suddenly felt engorged and dry in his mouth, barely able to allow him to speak his truth. “I wish to—”

Cazador tilted his head, tsking at his spawn. “A djinn now, am I? I’m afraid I don’t grant wishes, dear boy. Run along now.” 

The dismissive wave of his hand was what _really_ irked Astarion the most. He wasn’t a little _boy_. He deserved more respect than that; he helped thwart more attempts on Cazador’s life than the old fool realized over the years! If he could go back and do things all over again, he might have just let Cazador be slain…wouldn’t he? Surely if he knew what he did now about where their relationship would go and how he would be treated, Astarion would have betrayed him in a heartbeat (not that either of them had one of those anymore), right?

He…wasn’t sure…

Despite himself, Astarion clenched his fists at his sides, stamped his foot petulantly like a child, and said, “Now you listen here, you old bastard! I’ve had enough of you ordering me around like I _am_ one of your _ghouls_! I’m not a _lackey_ , I’m…I’m…” What _was_ he to Cazador? Did he ever really know? “…I’m your _lover_!” Tears pricked at his eyes, though he kept them held in.

As if his pride wasn’t wounded enough as it was, Cazador threw his head back in uproarious laughter. “Your lover!” he cried humorously. “Astarion, please…” The snickering continued as he added a few more words to his parchment. “I knew I should’ve put you into theater. Lover. Hah!” He shook his head, causing strands of long black hair to fall into his face.

Astarion’s head spun with feelings of betrayal. He could barely keep upright—his legs were wobbling underneath himself. He felt so humiliated, but he supposed he at least knew the truth now: Cazador never took his devotion seriously, Astarion was merely a joke to him. Their “relationship” was all just a fun little game that he grew bored with. This wasn’t how the encounter had played out in Astarion’s head. He let his master shake him to his core, and it barely even took much to manage that.

_Am I really so pathetic?_ Astarion wondered mournfully as he clutched his dizzy head.

“I-I want to make my own childe,” Astarion stammered squeezing his hands together anxiously. He expected to be saying this with significantly more confidence, but in this state, all he could do was beg for it like he was asking his parent for a new toy. Maybe he _was_ just a boy, after all… “If you don’t care for me anymore, if you ever did in the first place, then it’s only fair that after all this time I’ve served you so loyally that I have my own Kindred spawn. You could _at least_ grant me a companion. One that belongs to me and no one else.”

Though he didn’t want to give Cazador the satisfaction, the other man could practically read the words, _Please…_ in his eyes.

“Absolutely not,” Cazador said firmly, squeezing the pen between his fingers while his lips became a thin line. “And never ask me that again. You’re fortunate that I’m in a mirthful mood today, otherwise I would have mounted your head above the fireplace over there for your unchecked tongue.” His head tilted in the direction of the crackling hearth where, indeed, there was a perfect vacant spot just for that.

“Y-Yes, master. Forgive me, master. It won’t speak of it again,” Astarion uttered unwittingly with a hurried bow at the waist, hand on his chest as if swearing an oath. “I’ll do as you say and investigate this matter you’ve tasked me with. Forget that I said anything about siring a childe—it was silly of me.”

“Indeed, it was,” Cazador agreed. His pen scratched against the parchment furiously, making small tears in it. 

The skin on Astarion’s back trembled at the sight, as if something about the swift and violent motions of the pen’s sharp tip disturbed him deeply and brought back horrible, repressed memories, but he couldn’t for the life of him recall what it was that bothered him so. Some nights he just got this burning sensation on his back, but with no ability to see his own reflection clearly (it wasn't because one wasn't there—he wasn't a Lasombra—he simply couldn't make out the strange bumps in the flesh when he'd tried to utilize multiple mirrors for the task) and no one to confide in that could check for him, he couldn’t look to see what it was. Did vampires get hives or rashes, perhaps?

Cazador probably wasn’t going to be patient with his insolence for much longer. It was time for Astarion to go and get on with his night. He didn’t wish to spend it combing through the city streets for clues without some kind of lead, but if his sire didn’t offer any, he wasn’t going to give any and asking would only try his patience further.

Astarion loved him once, but he wasn’t sure why anymore.

* * *

One of the many ghouls that served Cazador jumped at the sight of Astarion’s approach, possibly not expecting him. The man itched at his forearm for what was probably the umpteenth time that night; his skin had been clawed raw by his own fingernails. “Hah… Hi, Astarion. ‘Sup?” He hopped away using one foot as the vampire came closer, suspicious of his motivations for being here unannounced.

Astarion grabbed the ghoul by the collar, pulling him close. “ _You make my job too easy for me_ ,” he hissed, though truthfully, he was relieved; the other ghouls he had chatted with earlier were of no help and he feared he’d be stuck out wandering the city until sunrise. He couldn’t just return to Cazador empty handed. His sire would sincerely expect him to risk immolation via sunlight if he had to in order to come up with _something_ more than a: No one could tell me anything. “Where are you and the others getting your fix?”

The ghoul squirmed in his grasp, shutting his eyes tightly in anticipation of any physical punishment that might follow. “I-I’m sorry, man, but I’ve gotta level with you: You know better than anybody else how it is. Ca-Caz isn’t feedin’ us like he promised anymore. It’s drivin’ us crazy. Some ghouls are jumpin’ off bridges and tryin’ to eat their own pets. Crazy shit like that. The drugs are all that’s helpin’ us keep it together until Caz gives us a taste of his blood again.” The man paused, frowning worriedly. “ _If_ he ever does…”

Astarion suspected as much, but he wasn’t about to relent in his interrogation. He jostled the ghoul threateningly and snapped, “I don’t _care_ about your _sob story_ , just tell me who your dealer is. _Now_!”

“Okay, okay!” The ghoul wheezed, trembling, and shielding his face with his arms. “There’s a few of ‘em, but I think they’re all workin’ together. There’s a couple of old guys—a tiny bald dude, middle aged, and a ripped old geezer. Well, he’s not _ripped_ , but he ain’t frail, neither…” He recounted more of the details, breathing heavily in an attempt to calm himself down and think more clearly. “But I ain’t seen neither of ‘em in a while. Now it’s this pale, scrawny kid they got. Real nervous. Stringy hair. You’d know ‘im if you saw ‘im. Wears eyeliner. Weird guy… Not much older than me.”

After the ghoul was done describing the suspects, he was tossed to the ground unceremoniously. “And where can I find him?” Astarion asked, straightening his posture, and appearing his usual regal self once more after the inner beast’s influence left his fair features, for now.

“You can probably still catch ‘im if you’re fast. He usually closes up shop, so to speak, around this time of night, but you can usually find ‘im a few feet away from the streetlamp where the hookers hang out around the corner.” The ghoul gestured wildly in the direction of an area that Astarion was vaguely familiar with. “You can’t miss ‘im, I promise you.”

“Alright, calm yourself already, wretch,” Astarion muttered with a heavy sigh. With the way he spoke these days, one would never think he was born in the sixties. He truly had adopted nearly all of Cazador’s ways to a point where most thought he was the man’s protégé who originated from the same time period as Cazador did. Astarion thought he was his master’s heir apparent, too, but that belief had been thoroughly dispelled over time, along with his other dreams.

“So, you’re not gonna kill me, right? Since I talked?” asked the ghoul, dragging himself away against the coarse sidewalk to make a bit of distance between himself and his superior.

Astarion could have, if he wanted to, and Cazador probably wouldn’t have even minded, but something stayed his hand—or rather, his fangs. “I won’t, but don’t do anything that might cause me to change my mind…” He picked at the disturbed frills in his sleeves, fluffing them back out, then went on his way; the ghoul was thankful for that.

* * *

“Honey, are you going to go now? You should really go home; it’s getting late, and I’m about to call it a night myself.” The prostitute leaned against the lamppost, taking another drag from her slim cigarette as she gazed the fragile young man standing at the dimly lit wall several paces away from her with concern. She was a few years his senior—by about a decade and a half—and apparently, she’d kept an eye on him whenever he was out peddling his illicit wares. That was why he came to stand so close to where she was doing business every night.

“I will,” mumbled the young man, scratching his neck idly and sighing. He felt inside of one pocket of his hoodie, flipping through a wad of cash, then reached into the other side and took account of his remaining supply. He knew he shouldn’t be fooling with either so frequently, lest he be seen by an undercover officer or unsavory type, but he couldn’t stop fidgeting when he was out here. He _did_ want to go home, but his adoptive father would nag him again for not making enough sales if he came home with less money than the last time. It wasn’t his fault; sales weren’t his forte.

“I’m serious, I really have to go now,” said the woman urgently, putting out her cigarette. “Don’t stay out here much longer; it’s not safe.” She clearly didn’t want to ditch him, but what could she do to put some sense into the stubborn young man? Hopefully, leaving him alone out here would finally convince him to pack up and leave. Surely, he would get nervous the moment she left, and would do what he ought to: Just go home already.

He was about to after a few minutes of dead silence and isolation, but as he was getting his back up off the wall, he was pinned back to it by a taller man with wild near-white hair. “Wh-Who… Please let me go! Is it money that you want? I’ve only got a little—”

The ghoul didn’t mention that the young man was quite attractive. In fact, Astarion expected someone a lot uglier looking, given the description. He anticipated he’d be looking for some pimple-faced emo kid that didn’t know how to use a razor, but instead, he found himself face-to-face with a smooth-faced young man that had probably transitioned from an ugly duckling into a swan upon reaching maturity. Astarion couldn’t help but stroke the side of the shivering man’s face with the back of his hand. His skin practically glowed in the moonlight, and Astarion almost thought to check the youth for fangs.

“Pl-Please stop,” begged the smaller man, turning his head away and shutting his eyes. He was already starting to cry, and Astarion hadn’t even said a word to him. He expected the worst when he felt the stranger’s hand slip inside the pocket of his hoodie, not knowing what he intended. Then, his eyes opened at the crinkle of one of the plastic bags that was retrieved from the pocket as it was dangled in front of his face.

“So, _you’re_ the new local dealer, are you?” Astarion chuckled. “You don’t seem the type at all. What’s a pretty little doll such as yourself doing all alone out here hawking dope? I’m surprised you’re not lying dead in a gutter by now.”

“I-It wasn’t my idea,” the youth croaked, on the verge of fainting. The stranger’s hand on his face slid down to his neck, petting him there. He wished he had listened to his friend’s advice and gone home sooner. “I usually just _make_ the drugs, I don’t really _sell_ them, but my uncle broke his leg and I’ve been having to do his job on his behalf until he gets better.”

Astarion pulled away from his prey and peered at the contents of the clear bag clutched in his fist. It looked like cocaine, but he didn’t see many people using that these days; it had fallen out of fashion from his own youth. He considered pocketing it for himself to try it out when he got back to Cazador’s manor, but he wasn’t even sure if it’d have an effect on him anymore, though he did miss his partying days very dearly. Deciding it was worth a try, he decided to “confiscate” the illegal materials, after all, tucking it away into his trouser pocket.

“You’ve been selling to the wrong people, you know,” Astarion explained, giving the man a wolfish grin. The glimpse of pointed teeth clearly alarmed the young man, and though it was obvious he was considering making a run for it, he remained put where he was. Smart boy. “My employer isn’t very happy about it. You’ve been poisoning the minds of his workers, and it’s been interfering with his business.”

“I-I’m so very sorry,” stammered the man, trying to become one with the brick wall behind himself, going by the way he was pressing his back into it so desperately. “I’ll…I’ll find somewhere else to sell. I’m sorry, sir. I’m _terribly_ sorry,” he continued rambling on in his Northern English accent that Astarion couldn’t quite place. Yorkshire, perhaps? Regardless, it was sweet, and it told Astarion that he wasn’t originally from around these parts despite the young man’s botched efforts to sound like an American.

“I’m afraid a simple “sorry” won’t suffice,” Astarion replied, clasping his hands together while retaining the smugness in his smirk.

“I haven’t much money,” the man repeated, shakily reaching into his pocket to fish out the wad of cash, offering it over. “But you can have all of it! I haven’t anything else to give, I’m afraid…”

“Haven’t you?” The vampire accepted the bribe, placing it away as well, but it still didn’t seem to be enough. The money hardly interested him, however. He had something else in mind. His mind was wandering back to the idea of having a Kindred childe of his own. 

If he had his choice, who would be more perfect than such a sweet creature like this man? He wasn’t going to stay this young and beautiful forever, and wouldn’t that be a shame? Sometimes Astarion, like his master, got mistaken for a Toreador because of their love for beauty and art. Astarion was more partial to the latter, personally.

Astarion placed the tip of his finger underneath the young man’s chin, lifting his head up so that he could better see his delicate features. He looked gorgeous with that black eyeliner of his running down his face as he wept fearfully, making his face appear like cracked porcelain. “Tell me your name, darling…”

“E…Elganon.” The youth’s lips twitched timidly, and his heart was racing in his chest.

Was the man playing with him? “What’s your _real_ name? I won’t ask again.”

“Th-That _is_ my real name! I know it probably sounds silly to you, but it’s my name.”

Well, Astarion couldn’t really say anything. He also had an odd name; he just didn’t expect to encounter someone with a name so similar to his own. Fate could be a strange thing at times. In Astarion’s case, being born in the sixties, his parents were part of the Free Love movement, and had opted to give their child a new age name that invoked thoughts of the night sky. It got him teased a lot growing up, but Astarion had grown so accustomed to teasing for all manner of things that being ribbed over his name hardly bothered him anymore.

“Wh-Who are you?” Elganon was bold enough to ask.

“Astarion.”

“That’s a beautiful name.”

The compliment would have brought color to the vampire’s cheeks if such a thing were still possible. “Thank you.”

They were locked in an awkward moment of silence as neither one of them could think of where it made sense to go from here.

“How would you like to work for me?” Astarion asked finally when the idea struck him.

“For you…? But I don’t even know you—”

“It would help to repay your debt.”

It was less of a job offer and more of an ultimatum.

“My father and my uncle would be rather cross with me if I went to work for someone else…”

“So? To Hell with them! Clearly, you’re hardly making much of a living like this, and it’s bound to get you killed,” Astarion argued, and he made a good point. Elganon thought that _he_ was going to kill him. He placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Come work for me, and I’ll see to it that you’ll want for nothing ever again. No more peddling on the cold, dark streets. You’ll be taken care of. I promise.”

“R-Really?” Elganon’s gloomy face brightened at the prospect. Smiling probably didn’t come often for him in his bleak life.

“Yes, really,” Astarion replied with a soft smile playing on his lips. “There’s only one little thing I need from you, my dear.” He leaned in close as if he were about to share a precious secret.

Elganon’s grin widened a tad. “Other than the drugs and the money I had, you mean?”

Astarion laughed. “Indeed.” He curled a strand of the man’s stringy black hair around his finger and whispered into his ear passionately. “I’ll need to give you a little kiss to seal the deal… What do you say?”

The young man’s breath hitched and his face pinkened. Elganon didn’t even realize that when Astarion had come so close, he draped his arms around the taller man’s shoulders; it was like it happened subconsciously. “I-I’ve never been kissed before…”

“That’s alright,” the vampire cooed. “I’ll be gentle…”

Elganon braced himself eagerly, craning his neck as his shoulder-length hair was brushed to the back. He sighed delightedly when he felt the stranger’s cool lips press against his neck, sucking and licking ardently at the flesh. Then his whole body froze when a piercing pain overwhelmed him as teeth sank in deep.

He didn’t remember much else afterwards, but it was the best moment of his life.

Elganon loved this man, but he wasn’t sure why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I buy the drugs, I light the fire. I am your main supplier. I am your man, and I buy the drugs."
> 
> Recommended Listening: I Buy the Drugs by Electric Six


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm going to update this fanfiction very slowly.
> 
> Also Me: [can't take my hands off the keyboard as I continue to write furiously]
> 
> I just couldn't stop thinking about this AU.

Elganon's vision and thoughts were clouded in darkness, swimming in a confused haze that left him blinded by everything but a wonderful tingling sensation and the sound of his own eager sucking, but on what?

He was eating, but he couldn't tell what it was, not at first. His lips were wrapped around something soft and smooth that oozed with a coppery liquid. The viscous substance seeped through the tiny cracks between his teeth and he moaned at the taste.

Was it blood? It couldn't be. He was a vegetarian! He'd never eat meat unless he was starving to death! But he was. He was famished. Hungry. So hungry, like he'd never eaten before.

Another sensation clawed inside of him. He was dying.

God, he was dying! It hurt. So badly. He'd never experienced such pain, but something—no, _someone_ was nursing him like a swaddling baby, feeding him their blood. It was delicious, and he mewled as he was pet on the back soothingly while he feasted.

What was happening to him?

The hurt went away, and now he was feeling ecstasy again. This must have been what sex felt like, he imagined. He was told that for some people it hurt at first, but only for a little while and then it faded, becoming pleasure. That’s what his prostitute friend told him, at least. She offered a few times to sate his curiosity with a demonstration, but he was always so meek and shy that he declined. He said that he’d rather his first time be with his soulmate. Was whoever he was with now his soulmate? This all felt rather intimate…

"That's enough, my dear."

Elganon was gently pried from his meal, only to look up and see that he was suckling from the wrist of the pale stranger. The man smiled down at him, reaching up to stroke his black hair and tangle it between his fingers.

Astarion found it cute how, even with blood smeared across the young man's lips, he was so innocent. So sweet.

"Intense, isn't it?" he asked Elganon, smirking wider.

"M-More? Please?" Elganon begged with those wide eyes of his.

"Hah! Poor thing. Not to worry, we'll cure your hunger soon enough. But first things first: I need to explain to you what you are. What you've become," said Astarion.

It was hard for Elganon to focus when he was so hungry, but he would do his best to listen carefully. If he was obedient, he might get more to eat soon. He was ravenous, and unsure if he was full of energy or completely spent. His body swayed dizzily even with the other man propping him up to keep him from falling over onto the concrete sidewalk. 

Now would have been the perfect opportunity for any voyeur to have had a peep show of their intimate embrace, but surprisingly, the two were all alone on this abandoned street. Perhaps the presence of this apparent creature of the night that appeared into Elganon’s life rather suddenly caused mortal spirits to get an unnatural chill down their spines and opt for another route home tonight. If only Elganon himself were so sensible, but it seemed he always did live sort of a charmed life.

“You may not believe me when I tell you this, but you’re…” Astarion considered the right wording for a moment. “Well, we call ourselves Kindred, so that’s the word you should adapt to using.”

“We’re soulmates now?” Elganon’s eyes lit up again with recognition. This was good! He was concerned that he’d just shared a one-time experience with someone he may never see again.

Another chuckle came from Astarion’s throat. He removed the handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed the blood away from his new childe’s lips. “Something like that.” Once the doll-like face was clean, Astarion leaned in to press a kiss at the corner of the young man’s mouth, which elicited an excitable giggle from the youth. “Humanity—Kine is our word—refers to us as vampires. Not as tasteful as the word “Kindred”, is it?”

“A…vampire.” Elganon peered down at the ground, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, and losing himself in troubled thought. His gaze shifted back to Astarion’s eyes. “So, I eat _people_ now?” he said incredulously, raising his thin eyebrows.

“Only their blood, not their flesh,” Astarion explained, raising an upturned palm in a shrug. “And you don’t _have_ to kill them. In fact, it’s vital that you _don’t_. You want to leave them alive and leave them totally ignorant to the fact that you’ve drank their blood. To do otherwise puts all Kindred at serious risk. It puts _yourself_ at risk. It’s a big faux pas under Camarilla law—the Masquerade.”

These were a lot of words that clearly meant something specific that Elganon didn’t understand and could hardly keep up with in his current state of mind. “Camarilla?”

Astarion draped an arm around his childe’s shoulders, hugging him tight in an almost parental fashion. “That’s the organization I work for, darling. You could say I’m one of the local magistrates. If a Kindred in this city breaks Camarilla law, it’s my duty to bring them to justice. I’ve been appointed by the local prince to do so.” He winced slightly upon the ironic realization that now _he_ was the lawbreaker. He wasn’t supposed to create vampiric “offspring” without the prince’s—his sire’s—consent, and he most definitely didn’t have it. Surely, this could all be kept a secret, couldn’t it?

Elganon looked very amused by the term “prince” at use here. “You—ah, _we_ —have princes? What about princesses?”

“Gender doesn’t really factor into it. They’re called “princes”, too.” Astarion’s mind immediately went back to dwelling on the fear of his master’s wrath. He’d made a really stupid move, hadn’t he? God, what was he going to do? Hm… God probably wouldn’t come to his aid, would He? Or She. Astarion never really cared to participate in that debate, given that his only personal religion in life was pure hedonism—a stark contrast to his parents’ dabbling in Paganism, despite what ignorant pearl-clutchers might think.

“ _You_ look like you could be a prince,” said Elganon with a dreamy expression. “You’re very handsome, and you dress just like one.” 

Now was _really_ not the time to be so flattering or flirtatious, even if Astarion might have loved it under better circumstances. 

“Shut up for a moment, you adorable little fool. I’m thinking,” Astarion blurted out anxiously, drumming on his own pale pink lips with his fingers. Where was he in his little lesson? Was he forgetting anything important? “A-Anyway, most importantly, obey the rules of the Masquerade. That basically entails keeping mortals ignorant to the fact that our kind exist at all. If you fuck up there, you’re royally fucked, and I can’t do much to save you.”

Astarion was _royally_ fucked, wasn’t he? Shit…

…It was completely worth it, though.

“I’m going to capture a meal for you—one befitting of your new clan. You’re a Ventrue, you see, and unfortunately our palates are _very_ picky compared to the other Kindred clans out there; there are several types, but we are the most superior of them all.” Astarion tried to slow down so that Elganon could absorb all of this. “You’ll need to feed from someone of good genetic makeup, and I’m not sure you’d be able to handle prey like that all by yourself on your first night. So, allow me to handle it. I’ll make sure you don’t kill them.”

Elganon appeared very relieved. “Thank you, Astarion. I think it would help a lot if you showed me how it’s done. I’m very nervous about all this.”

“I can tell. You’re shaking like an autumn leaf.” The older man chuckled, patting his childe on the back. He helped Elganon get to his feet and led him in the direction of an upper-class and very exclusive nightclub. 

* * *

Astarion could easily go inside with his new childe, having been there numerous times himself while on the prowl and seeking some respite from his taxing job, but why bother? It didn’t take long for a pair of wealthy brats to come stumbling out the door, drunk out of his and her minds, and start wobbling towards the expensive car they arrived in.

“Hey, babe, we should call a taxi. C’mon,” insisted the young lady, nudging her suitor affectionately to keep him from inserting his keys into the door lock.

“Ugh, but the taxis around here _stink_ ,” the man grumbled. “And they’re cramped, and the backseat’s always _sticky_.”

The woman rolled her eyes, clutching onto his arm tightly. “ _Fine_ , we’ll see if any limos are running at this hour. How about that? Just use your Dad’s credit card. I don’t wanna _die_ in a car crash, dummy.”

The man groaned again petulantly, giving into her demands as he fished in his pocket for his cellphone. As soon as he had it in his hand, it was taken from him gently by a pale hand that snaked up behind him. “H-Hey! Give that back!”

“Need a lift?” purred the fair-haired, well-dressed man that stood before the couple, shadowed by a pretty young man who was much dourer looking and shy.

“Do you know these guys?” the intoxicated man asked his girlfriend.

She squinted her eyes at the two strangers, attempting to recall if she recognized them from anywhere. Her eyes were caught in the more confident one’s hypnotic gaze, and she simply couldn’t look away from his handsome pale face. “Uhm… Yeah. Yeah, I think so. They’re friends of mine,” she mumbled, but the memories didn’t feel like her own. “I think they come here sometimes.” She gestured to the nightclub. “Or maybe I met them at a college party…”

That was convincing enough for her boyfriend. He shrugged his shoulders at his girlfriend, then turned his attention back to the unusually sallow strangers, putting his hands in his pockets along with his keys. “Yeah, sure, but my Dad’s estate is a few miles from here. That’s not a problem, right?”

“Not at all,” said Astarion with a smirk. He put the cellphone into his own back pocket, and the couple didn’t even notice despite watching him do it. Elganon was dumbfounded by how easily his new mentor was manipulating them. “My car is parked right down the road here. Follow me, my precious darlings. And not to worry, I keep the backseat in _pristine_ condition, and you’ll find that the scent is quite lovely.”

Elganon and the couple followed behind Astarion like enthralled little sheep being herded by their shepherd, enchanted for differing reasons, and piled into the white car once the doors were unlocked. The couple scooted their way into the backseat while Elganon took the passenger’s side at the front. Astarion settled into the driver’s seat, started the ignition, and once the high-end luxury car was in motion, the doors locked automatically via an electronic system; the passengers in the back, of course, thought nothing of it since it was rather common in newer vehicles.

The man in the back began giving directions to his home, and Astarion pretended to head that way for a little while. Really, he was taking them to a discrete location where the four of them could get some…privacy. The couple were beginning to get suspicious when the car slowed to a crawl, then a stop at a dead end, but before the lady could protest, Astarion made up the lie, “Damn, the engine light just came on. One moment…”

The woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat, inching closer to her partner. Astarion, with his hand still laid upon the gear switch, subtly leaned his body closer towards Elganon’s and murmured to his vampiric offspring, “Brace yourself. I’m about to go for the woman. When I spring into the backseat, you go for the man. Don’t worry about trying to overpower him—I’ll assist you with numbing their senses as I did earlier. Are you ready, dear childe?”

Elganon wasn’t prepared in the slightest, but as soon as he heard the _click…click click…_ of the woman trying the doorhandle, only to discover its childproof locks that could only be opened from the front seat, he knew that it was either now or never. Panic was rising in their prey. “Y-Yes, I’m ready.”

“Good.” In a flash of movement, Astarion was over the armrest compartment and into the backseat, baring his fangs as he pinned the woman down. She shrieked at first, but slipped into an unnatural calm, as did her partner in the wake of the powerful Kindred’s potent presence.

The fledgling vampire followed his sire’s lead, though he did not know how to utilize whatever power Astarion was using to hypnotize them. He made an attempt by putting his mind to it, but he wasn’t sure if he was actually doing anything other than applying some wishful thinking as he took the slumped over man into his arms. In the corner of his eyes, he watched what Astarion was doing and followed suit, sinking his teeth into the man’s neck. It was easy for Astarion to break the woman’s skin, but the man was much tougher for Elganon to pierce; maybe it was due to the fact that women had softer skin than men on average.

Astarion noticed his childe’s struggle and paused in his feeding to assist him. “Your fangs may still be developing. The transformation process is usually instantaneous, but I’ve known a few Kindred who take a while for everything to take full effect.” He pulled back Elganon’s lips with his fingers carefully to have a look at the small fangs and nodded his head. “Yes, they’re still coming in, I see. Cute little things.” He chuckled, letting go of his childe’s mouth and dipping down to use his own fangs to open the man’s flesh for him.

Elganon brushed his own messy hair behind one ear bashfully as Astarion did all the hard work for him. It was like having somebody cut your steak up for you, and as much as he appreciated the gesture, he couldn’t help but feel a little helpless. “Th-Thank you.”

“Any time, dear.” Astarion smiled, releasing the pressure he was applying to the open wound once Elganon placed his lips over it in his hand’s place. He went back to straddling the woman and feeding upon her as she lay stunned, gazing off into the distance.

It felt strange to be sharing such a taboo meal with a total stranger in the backseat of his car, but Elganon was enjoying the quality time they were spending together. All morbidities aside, he could never picture himself taking to a stranger this easily; he was quite skittish and usually very stubborn about trusting people he did not know. Astarion, however, was accepted into his heart easily. As far as Elganon’s soul knew, they may as well have been childhood best friends. Elganon had never had a best friend before. What they were doing now seemed like the kind of dark secret best friends would keep between each other. There was no one in this world now that he trusted more.

Astarion almost completely forgot to keep an eye on Elganon as the newborn Kindred fed. When he glanced over, his fangs released the woman’s neck in a hurry as he noticed that the man was taking on that kind of pallor that suggested he was nearly drained dry. “Stop!” He grabbed Elganon by the shoulders and wrenched him away from the man. His frail childe put up more of a fight than he expected him to.

“Nnh! I’m hungry!” Elganon complained as he was ripped from his victim’s throat. Luckily, he didn’t take the man’s throat in his teeth with him; he would survive, but damn was the man going to have the ultimate hangover the next day.

“That’s enough,” Astarion snapped, pulling his childe into a comforting hug. “The hunger will subside once it’s been absorbed into your system. Take any more, and you’ll kill that man. And let me remind you again: If you kill a human, you not only risk breaking the Masquerade, but you also will lose a part of what’s left of your humanity. It’ll scar your soul _permanently_ , Elganon. You don’t want that because it’ll turn you into a rabid _beast_.”

Pouting, Elganon rested his head against Astarion’s shoulder, hugging him back as they sat between the two barely conscious lovers in the backseat. “You tasted better…”

His sire laughed. “Well, you can’t have me, dear. You could only have me once.” He didn’t want to go into the topic of diablerie or blood bonding. That would have to be a lesson for another day, once he could trust that it wouldn’t give his new partner in vampirism any terrible ideas. It was best to let him think that there was some arbitrary reason he could only drink Astarion’s blood a single time, and that other Kindred were strictly off-limits.

Elganon sighed and nuzzled against the nape of his sire’s neck. “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you, Astarion.”

The words caught Astarion off-guard, and his body went rigid. “I…” How did he respond to that? “I care very deeply for you as well, my childe. We’re connected for eternity now, you and I, after all.” He just wished he wasn’t still connected to Cazador in the same manner…

As the lovers on either side of them began to stir, Astarion shifted uncomfortably, letting go of Elganon, and crawled back into the front seat. He unlocked the doors with the press of a button and said, “Elganon, help me drag them out of the car before they realize where they are.”

This time, Astarion went for the man while Elganon pulled the woman out of the opposite side of the car, and they set them down on the pavement next to the Dead End sign attached to the fence ahead.

“Goddamn it,” Astarion muttered when he got back to his car to shut the back doors. “If I knew you were going to make such a mess, I would’ve put down some towels or something first!” He went to the trunk to grab a couple of towels to sop up the bloody mess staining his leather seats, fussing under his breath as the vitae smeared all over the place even worse. “Don’t you have any table manners, Elganon!? What kind of Ventrue are you? Just look at this!”

Elganon did look, peering over Astarion’s shoulder while fidgeting with his hands timidly in embarrassment. He probably should have been helping with the cleaning, but he worried he’d make his sire angrier if he messed that up, too, somehow. “I’m _so_ very sorry. I-I’ll be more careful next time. Sorry…”

“Well, you’d better because this is _ridiculous_ , darling. Eugh! It’s like a damned murder scene back here! Imagine if we got pulled over!” For all of Astarion’s nagging, he really wasn’t _that_ mad. Disappointed, but not mad—not in the way that Cazador got with him when _he_ made a mistake.

“Am I in trouble?” Elganon thought to ask, sheepishly. The tone of the question made Astarion smile and giggle a bit; it helped him lighten up a little.

“No, you’re not in trouble,” Astarion said, tossing the soiled towels into a nearby dumpster and coming back to ruffle his childe’s messy black hair endearingly. “But _do_ be more careful next time, dear.”

“I-I will,” Elganon promised. He looked over at the couple, who were propped up against the fence. They were getting up and coming to their senses.

“So, are you gonna take me and my girlfriend home, or what?” the man asked, confused by his new surroundings when he was the first to snap out of the trance. He rubbed his sore neck, puzzled by why it ached so badly, but didn’t think much of it. He figured he probably fell asleep at an awkward angle for a while there and it must have hurt his neck. That had to be it.

Astarion sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to take my car to the shop; it’s having engine issues. You’ll have to call a taxi.” He motioned for Elganon to come along and get back into the car, doing so himself, and turned the ignition back on. Going in reverse once Elganon was in his own seat, they peeled out of the dead end, leaving the baffled and befuddled lovers behind.

“Are you fucking KIDDING ME!?” screamed the woman, leaping to her platform high heels with surprising skill. She stamped her foot angrily. “What the fuck!?” At the top of her lungs, loud enough for Astarion to hear even with the windows rolled up, she yelled out, “ASSHOLE!” while giving him the finger.

Elganon slumped in his seat, trying to disappear out of shame for what they’d done. “Did we really have to leave them there?”

Astarion waved his hand and scoffed at his childe’s sympathy. “Oh, piss on them. Who cares, love? We got our fill, and that’s all that matters. Don’t you feel _invigorated?_ ” He grinned wide and reached down to squeeze Elganon’s thigh flirtatiously, reveling in how bashful it made the fledgling vampire get.

With a stammer, Elganon confessed, “W-Well, yes, but—”

“Excellent!” replied Astarion confidently. “Then my work here is done, and it’s time to take you home.”

This news was a bit of a letdown for Elganon, though he suspected it was too much to hope for that his new companion might spirit him away from his drab lifestyle entirely. “Do I _have_ to? …And you’re not going to drop me off in some random location, too, are you?”

“Don’t be silly, dear—I’d _never_. You’re my _childe_ ,” Astarion insisted, slowing the car down once they were out onto the road proper, obeying traffic laws for the most part. “And, yes, you _do_ have to return home. I can’t just take you back with _me_. Cazador would throw a fit.”

Elganon blinked. “Who’s Cazador?”

Right. Astarion forgot to mention his own sire by name. “My…” He sighed. “…employer.”

Other than a few brief exchanges of directions, the rest of their ride together was fairly quiet, apart from the hum of the car engine. After a few missed turns and misunderstood instructions (Elganon couldn’t seem to keep track of left from right and blamed it on the fact that he was left-handed, which Astarion thought was a silly excuse), they finally arrived at the apartment complex that the fledgling Kindred stayed in.

* * *

Upon seeing the inside of his childe’s cramped, unkempt apartment, Astarion was completely disgusted. He waved his hand in a circular motion and said, “So, I take it _this_ is where all the “magic” happens, yes?”

Elganon tittered a bit and mumbled, “Misery, more like, but yes, this is my home. I know it’s not much, but—”

Astarion gave the young vampire his money back that he’d taken from him earlier. Clearly, he needed it more. Elganon was dumbfounded by the return of his cash, but instead of pocketing it, he brought it over to the seemingly empty armchair that was parked in front of the tiny television set that currently had a boxing match playing on it.

“Here’s what I made tonight,” Elganon said, doing his best to smile optimistically. Astarion was surprised to see a large hand on a stubby arm reach out and take the wad of cash, and then hear the flip of paper dollars being counted.

“Tha’s all ye made after bein’ out there all damn night, lad?”

Curiously, Astarion approached the chair and walked around it to see that there was a very short and stout little man with a big bushy beard curled up in it like a bump on a log. “Is this your father?” Astarion ventured to ask with a gesture of his hand in the unfamiliar man’s direction, attempting to hide his disapproval.

“Sort of, but not really?” Elganon replied, leaning against the arm of the chair with his arms folded against it. “This is Orebos. He’s an old friend of my real father, who died when I was little. He took me in since my actual father burned all the bridges with the rest of my family. I’m not sure they even know I exist after all these years.”

Another odd name, but Astarion had a more pressing question first. “What about your mother?”

Elganon frowned. “She didn’t want me. I don’t think my real dad wanted me, either, but Orebos here took up for me and said I shouldn’t be left to rot in an orphanage somewhere in West Riding. When Dad died, we came out here to the US along with another friend of my father’s. I think at the time, we all needed a fresh start.”

“Ye got friends now, Elg?” Orebos asked with a raised eyebrow, peering up at Astarion skeptically. “Or are ye draggin’ customers back home with ye now?”

Forgetting himself, Elganon stood up straight and placed a hand on his sire’s shoulder, presenting him to his surrogate father-figure with his other arm. “This is Astarion. He’s my…” What was he to him, exactly? “Yes, he’s my _friend_.”

“Ah, right. Yer “friend”,” Orebos repeated, taking the hesitation as an unintended implication that they were lovers. He really didn’t care if his “son” was gay; he always suspected it, actually. But if it made Elganon more comfortable to beat around the bush, then so be it. “Bit o’ a frilly man, but it is what it is, aye?”

The diminutive Scotsman stuffed the money into the pocket of his pajama pants that he probably hadn’t changed out of in days and offered a handshake to the pale stranger, who reluctantly reciprocated it for the sake of being cordial in front of his childe. “So, Frilly, how’d ye come about meetin’ tha lad?”

“We met at a…” Astarion paused, wondering if what he was about to say would be in character for Elganon. “…club?” They _were_ at a club earlier, after all. Near one, rather. That was close enough.

Orebos shifted his gaze back to Elganon. “Ye go tae clubs now?”

Elganon laughed nervously and helped add to the lie, “Y-Yes, on occasion! I-I-I thought it might help with sales, you know? Most people at clubs want a little more than drinks to take the edge off, don’t they?” He actually wasn’t sure. He’d never been _inside_ of a club before, so he could only assume.

Orebos patted Elganon on the arm proudly, or rather slapping him, more like, in his overenthusiasm. “Tha’s tha spirit! Maybe ye’ll figure this "salesman" shite out yet!”

“In fact, I’m helping him learn how to build his confidence and develop his speaking skills,” Astarion cut in, cupping his hands together. He figured that the tale they were weaving was doing a lot to whittle away the middle-aged man’s suspicion, if he still had any left.

“Good, good! Shite, in tha’ case, make yerself at home, Frilly! A friend o’ Elg’s is a friend o’ mine!” Given how surprised Elganon appeared at his adoptive father’s giddiness, Astarion presumed that the man wasn’t normally this chipper. He struck Astarion as the type who only smiled at the prospect of wealth; he knew a lot of people like that, and to an extent was one of those people himself.

Astarion bowed performatively, and Elganon tugged at his sleeve to get his attention.

“Do you want to see my room?” Elganon asked excitedly. Had the young man never had a friend over to his home before? He was behaving like it.

“Of course, darling,” his sire agreed before nodding to Orebos. “Pardon us, sir. It was a _pleasure_ meeting you.” His voice was dripping with venom. He didn’t take on well to being called “Frilly” rather than by his real name.

Orebos simply grunted and bobbed his head, reaching for the remote to turn up the volume on his boxing match, permitting Elganon to drag Astarion down the small hallway to his bedroom.

* * *

“The paint’s wearing off this one, but one of my online friends mailed it to me for my 19th birthday,” Elganon rambled on as he was showing off his collection of tiny figurines for some tabletop game he apparently didn’t even play since he had no local friends, and he was too shy to ask to be a part of the games that took place at the comic book shop across the street from where he stayed. “It’s my favorite, though.”

The fledgling Kindred set it back on its lopsided shelf next to the others and reached for another one—perhaps the twentieth one Astarion would be shown; his sire was losing count in his utter boredom as he sat at the edge of his childe’s bed with his head propped up in his hand, pretending to be interested despite wanting desperately to drift off into slumber.

“Darling,” Astarion interrupted, containing his sleepy irritability. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Hm?” Elganon turned away from his collection, coming to sit beside his companion and giving him his utmost attention. He was leaning so close to Astarion that he was about to fall right into him.

“Is “Orebos” your adoptive father’s real name?” he wondered; that was information he _actually_ would like to know as opposed to all of the nerdy nonsense his childe had been prattling on about for the last hour now.

Elganon chuckled as if the question was a silly one. “What? No. That’s the name of his favorite Dungeons & Dragons character that he made. Orebos, my father, and my uncle—also just a friend of father’s, not my real uncle—used to play it together. Orebos played it because it kept his mind off his drinking addiction. Father played it because… Well, he was a bit of a closet nerd. Tabalecus, my uncle, played it because—and this is going to sound silly—everyone from his hometown said it was Satanic, and he sort of went out of his way to appear as evil as possible just to make people who’d judge him uncomfortable.” 

The young man squinted his eyes as he thought of something else, then added, “I actually don’t know what their real names are. They always went by those character names. I suppose, as drug dealers, they thought it only made sense to use code names rather than their actual names. I never thought to ask, since I always knew them by those names. As you can imagine, my father named me after one of his other characters that he sometimes played as during their campaigns.”

“And what was your father’s little nickname?” Astarion asked, fully awake now that he was intrigued.

“I don’t remember. It was really long, I think; a bit of a mouthful,” Elganon replied. “Sounded like Aluminum, or something. I don’t know. He died when I was very young, and his name stopped coming up at all after that.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” his sire replied, curling an arm around his childe’s waist.

“Ah, it’s alright. I try not to think about it too much these days.” Elganon rested his head against Astarion’s chest, and soon yearned to hear a heartbeat that never came. “Also, I think they had a lady friend that used to play with them, too, but I don’t really remember her. Don’t know what ever happened to her. It’s all a blur.”

“Alright, alright, you’ve sated my curiosity,” Astarion said, chuckling. He didn’t think his companion would turn out to be so talkative, given his shy nature, but apparently Elganon was waiting for the right person to confide literally _everything_ in. He must have had a lot to say after living such an apparently isolating lifestyle.

“While you’re here, is it alright if I show you one last thing? I wanted to show you my druid,” Elganon said, getting up from the bed and moving over to his gaming computer with a case that was splitting apart at the seams and didn’t even have a side panel anymore; it had been removed so that a floor fan could be aimed inside of it to keep it from overheating since the internal fans barely spun at this rate.

“Your…druid?” Astarion wanted to sigh, but he held it in. How much junk was his childe going to show him? Well, he supposed that, in a way, he was like a parent to him now, so obviously like with a real child, Elganon would want to share every little thing that was special to him. Was Astarion this annoying with Cazador back in their early days together?

“Yeah, I have a max level druid with the latest tier set from the new raid. Everyone in my guild is rather jealous, but to be fair, no one else wants to play a healing druid. I don’t know why—I rather like them. Although, I would honestly prefer to go ranged DPS—” 

Everything else that Elganon started babbling about went through one ear and out the other for Astarion. Not only did he not particularly care, but he hardly understood a word of it; they were just words that made little sense out of context. Then again, he supposed that Elganon must have felt the same way with all his lectures about Kindred and the Masquerade and etcetera…

“That’s lovely, darling, I’m very proud of your accomplishments, but I really must be going.” Astarion stood up and walked over to his childe, resting his palm under the back of his neck. “Besides, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve never been too fond of druidism in real life.”

Elganon was already at the character selection screen, so at least Astarion got to see what his avatar generally looked like. As one might expect, it was more or less himself, but more idealized. Less scrawny and weak, and dressed more regally. “Why not?”

“My _parents_ wanted me to become an _actual_ druid when I grew up,” he answered, rolling his eyes. “I broke their hearts by choosing to go to law school instead.”

“Are you serious?” Elganon sounded less like he was ridiculing the idea, and more that he was jealous that Astarion had parents like that.

“Oh, yes. They grew up in a different time, you see. Their lifestyle was…quaint, in its own way, but it became rather tiresome for me after a while.” Astarion shook his head. “I swear, if I had to go to one more Beatles concert or Woodstock again, I’d—”

“You got to see the Beatles live and in-person and go to Woodstock?!” Elganon gasped. “You’re so lucky!”

Astarion scoffed. “It’s not as pleasant as it sounds, darling. The other attendees completely ruined the experience, trust me. But, needless to say, I never want to see another tambourine again. I’d sooner have a cross waved in my face.”

“Haha, right.” Elganon hoped that his sire didn’t take note of the instrument he had poking out of a pile of clothing in the corner of his bedroom floor. He’d have to get rid of it as soon as Astarion had left for the night.

“At any rate, I’ll be back tomorrow evening to continue your training.” Astarion bent down to kiss Elganon on the forehead. The intimacy of it didn’t even cross his mind. “Make sure you sleep through the dawn, don’t get up until after dusk, and whatever you do, _don’t_ get in front of any sunlight. I see that you’ve already got your windows blackened out with construction paper and tinfoil. Keep it that way.”

“I never really cared for the sun in general—”

“I can tell, darling. You’re as pale as a ghost.”

“Right, well… Goodnight, Astarion.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

And with that, Astarion opened up the bedroom window, shut it behind himself, and was gone. Normally, Elganon might have busied himself with a computer game, like the one he had running right now, but he couldn’t be any less interested. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed and waited, pining for his sire’s return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cold, late night so long ago, when I was not so strong, you know. A pretty man came to me..."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Magic Man by Heart


	3. Chapter 3

If Cazador wasn’t going to feed a good portion of his ghouls, then what was the harm in Astarion taking them for himself? Clearly his sire was pruning out the less useful ones—downsizing his rather sizable ghoul army for pragmatic reasons—but that didn’t mean the ghouls he was casting aside were _useless_. In a way, Astarion was doing him a favor. Ghouls who didn’t get their fix went through violent withdrawals and feeding them his own blood every now and again would avoid that outcome without all the messy cleanup that typically proceeded Cazador’s capriciously timed ghoul cullings.

Now, Cazador wouldn’t have been pleased to know that these previously neglected ghouls were being utilized to perpetuate the business of a group of Kine drug dealers that Astarion swore up and down had been “handled” (he heavily implied that he had killed them, which disappointed Cazador since he preferred it when his childe brought back troublemakers _alive_ so that he could dole out their punishment himself), however…Cazador wouldn’t _have_ to know that, would he?

“Enjoying yourself, darling?” Astarion shouted over the loud music that thrummed all throughout the nightclub. 

He decided that he would finally take his fledgling childe to the club they found the couple stumbling out of on the night he Embraced Elganon and taught him how to feed his new unnatural lust for blood. It seemed a fitting way to celebrate the one-month anniversary of Elganon’s transformation into one of the Kindred and their success as business partners in the local drug trade.

“The dancing has been fun and all, but it’s a little loud in here!” Elganon replied, though he was smiling. 

Lively environments full of people weren’t really his thing (life in the city was horrible for someone like him), but the presence of his sire uplifted him. Much of his gloominess would dissipate, almost like magic, whenever Astarion entered the room. He was still prone to bouts of negative thinking, but somehow everything seemed like it would turn out alright for the most part when Astarion was there. He’d never normally agree to go to a club or a party willingly, but when it was Astarion who insisted, how could he say no?

“Let’s go somewhere quieter, then, my dear!” The older vampire finished off the last drop of blood in his glass. 

As one of the primary enforcers of Camarilla law in this territory, Astarion had grown lax about being mindful of the Masquerade himself. His dominating aura as a Ventrue had become very powerful over the years, something he begrudgingly had to give Cazador _some_ credit for, so he rarely had to worry about his vampiric nature being noticed by Kine. For all they knew, he was sipping a full-bodied glass of deep red wine. Kine were often dull creatures, by his measure (he’d already forgotten over the past few decades what it was like to be one, in many ways), and they had a penchant for overlooking the obvious—especially when it came to things that might disturb their delicate sensibilities. In other words, they saw what they wanted to see and believed what they wanted to believe.

It was a marvel of magic, science, or possibly both that Astarion could even drink from a glass as a Ventrue. He wasn’t supposed to be able to, allegedly, yet Cazador’s beloved Tremere had come up with a way around that. He didn’t know the details and didn’t care to. What mattered was that it worked and made his picky feeding habits slightly more manageable. He normally didn’t care for the unnatural way in which his sire was all “buddy-buddy” with the local Tremere chantry (he thought that Tremere were supposed to be highly secretive and kept everything strictly to their own clan), but this was one of the few things that made him resent the unnerving warlocks a little less.

Astarion placed his empty glass on the tray of a wandering attendant, which none of the Kine there realized was a ghoul, and took his childe by the hand, leading him out of the club’s VIP lounge and down the stairs. When they exited the building and walked to his white luxury car, Elganon got a worried expression on his face.

“You’re not taking me home already, are you?” he asked, furrowing his brow concernedly.

“Not yet,” Astarion replied, taking out his keys to unlock the doors with the press of a button. He opened the passenger’s side door for the fledgling and gave a gentlemanly bow of his head, urging Elganon to get in, which he did with only slight hesitation. “I want to show you something first.”

The younger vampire waited for Astarion to get into the driver’s side before he asked his next question. “What is it?”

Astarion smiled coyly as he leaned over to buckle Elganon’s seatbelt, doing so to be physically close to the other man. “You’ll see.” He ran a hand down his childe’s chest, shuddering pleasantly as he drew away to fasten his own seatbelt and drive off.

Elganon was understandably puzzled when they stopped at the dead end where they’d left that couple on the night he was turned. “Why are we stopping here?” His eyes widened as Astarion unbuckled his seatbelt and practically pounced onto him, crushing their lips together with unbridled desire. 

Apparently, Astarion had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Their lips mingled together, and soon the older vampire’s tongue began to prod at the slight part in Elganon’s lips, begging for entry that was slowly granted. Elganon wasn’t a very good kisser, but he had an excellent teacher who was eager to take the lead—after all, leadership was what the Ventrue did best, wasn’t it?

As Astarion made himself comfortable, seated on Elganon’s lap, he pulled his childe’s body with him to maintain the kiss as he reached down to fumble for the buttons that would recline the car seat. When the seat’s back was as far down as it would go, he pinned Elganon against it and deepened the kiss, mouth engulfing mouth with closed eyes and animalistic vigor. He could tell that Elganon wanted this as badly as he did.

Actually, he was more than a little surprised at how much he could tell the other man wanted this. His whole intent here was to show Elganon _how_ to…well, produce and maintain arousal as one of the undead. It was a task that, for most, took a great deal of concentration and effort, but it seemed his childe had no problem in that regard! Lucky him… For Astarion, it was not so easy, even though the mind was willing.

His wounded pride made it difficult for Astarion to untie his lacy cravat with any sort of grace, but Elganon aided him in its removal, smiling sweetly with a touch of excitement. Astarion let go of the garment and allowed the other man to slide it free from his neck, drop it to the floorboard, and then proceed with the removal of his loose-fitting 18th century-style shirt. With his chest made bare and vulnerable, Elganon placed kisses on the pale flesh, starting from Astarion’s jaw and ending several inches above his navel. 

Each peck from the younger vampire’s cool lips made his sire’s muscles quiver and elicited a soft gasp or hum that Astarion wasn’t even aware of making. Then, his childe struggled with the series of buttons on the old-fashioned trousers, taking care not to pop one of them off the fabric by mistake.

Going from being the administrator to the administrated took Astarion by surprise, but once he’d figured out how to relax and allow things to happen as they were, it became easier for him to focus on finding the same enthusiasm that his partner had stirring in his own loins. It was all about utilizing the power in his blood. That shouldn’t be so difficult for a skilled Ventrue like himself, should it?

Astarion sat up straight in Elganon’s lap, reaching behind himself to gain balance on the man’s legs with his hands. His eyes closed again as his limp manhood was freed from his trousers by his lover, and he sucked a deep breath of air into his dead lungs.

_Concentrate…_

What if he couldn’t do it? What if he humiliated himself in front of his fledgling childe? What kind of sire would he be, then? A failure? A joke? Perhaps Cazador was right to think that he wasn’t fit to sire any vampiric offspring…

This was never a problem for him before…

But Elganon didn’t seem to judge or think anything of it. He peered up at his master patiently as his fingers danced along the length held in his hand, believing that he was helping. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, enchanted by the sight of the taller man’s partial nakedness. His free hand grabbed onto Astarion’s exposed hip, squeezing, and feeling the musculature there with a sense of awe. To him, his sire was like a work of ancient Greek art—all flawless muscle with enough softness to the figure to be inviting. It felt like a crime for someone as downtrodden as he was to be permitted to be close to, let alone touch, someone so perfect. “Kiss me again. Please.”

Astarion adjusted himself and clambered out of his shoes, his socks, and his unbuttoned trousers and undergarments before crawling back on top of Elganon, taking the man’s mouth into his own once more. The eager moans of his lover were finally starting to do it for Astarion; he was getting a rise out of the gentle mewling that pleaded for his attention. Neither wanted to release the kiss, but now Astarion was pulling the graphic t-shirt over Elganon’s head and tugging off his worn jeans as if his childe’s poor taste in fashion offended him.

Soon, they were both laying naked in the leather car seat with their bodies pressed together, hidden from any potential prying eyes by the vehicle’s heavily tinted windows. They held each other in their arms, kissing and rolling about in the confined space, causing the car’s frame to occasionally shake. It wasn’t the most comfortable place to make love, but it was the only place of privacy they had for the time being, and yet again, Astarion was feeling sentimental today and had chosen this particular spot purposefully.

The sire popped open the armrest compartment and dug out a condom and a small bottle of lubricant. He sat upright again in Elganon’s lap, giving his partner some time to brace himself as he got ready for the actual act. The condom was simple to roll on, now that Astarion was fully erect, and Elganon watched him put it on with interest. His sire raised an eyebrow at him curiously.

“Th-They taught us how to put one onto a banana when I was in Sex Ed. as a teenager, but I’ve never seen anyone do it with an actual…you know,” Elganon confessed with an embarrassed smile. “I-I ripped mine when I was practicing on the banana in class.”

“But…you’ve had sex at some point in your life, right?” Astarion asked, filling his palm with lubricant from the bottle.

His childe’s lips twitched anxiously. “N…No.”

Lubricant started dripping between the cracks in the older vampire’s fingers as he lost track of exactly how much he was squeezing out of the container. He made a soundless _oh_ with his lips.

“So, you…you died a virgin,” Astarion stammered, suddenly feeling like a total bastard.

Elganon clearly never thought of it like that, but now that his sire put it that way, he was slightly mortified. “I…I guess so.”

“I-If I had _known_ , I would have… Well, I would have made your Embrace a little more…special.” Astarion swallowed and shrugged one shoulder. 

It was too late to agonize over “what should have been”, but he couldn’t help but feel ashamed. There was no real reason for him to ask at the time of his childe’s Embrace, but if he could go back and do things differently with the knowledge that he had now, he would have.

A smile crept back up on Elganon’s lips as he propped himself up on his elbows, going back to admiring the man above him. “There’s always now.”

_But you’re already dead, darling,_ Astarion thought sadly.

Despite his sire’s doubts, Elganon wrapped his hand around Astarion’s wrist and guided the palm full of generous amounts of lubricant to the underside of his protected shaft, encouraging him to finish what he’d started. It gave Astarion some peace of mind to see that his childe forgave him. Reassured, he proceeded with preparing himself and his lover, and after easing back into things with tender kisses and playful nibbles on the fledgling vampire’s soft flesh, their bodies became one in an entirely different kind of embrace—one of love and passion rather than selfishness and damnation.

When the pair lost themselves in their shared ecstasy, Astarion felt more alive then than he had since the night Cazador cursed his soul for eternity. As for Elganon, he finally felt the closeness to his sire that he’d been yearning for since he was made into one of the Kindred.

They loved each other, and now they knew why. It wasn’t merely because of the bond they shared as sire and childe; it was because of the fact that, even though they each came from two very different backgrounds, there was a shared willingness to try and understand one another and their needs. To have patience. To forgive.

And that, among Kindred society, was a rarity.

* * *

The second half of Astarion’s night wasn’t as thrilling as the first. In fact, he dreaded it. He always hated it when Cazador dragged him to some dull party that his sire only attended for the sole purpose of rubbing elbows with his most favored Kindred clans. For a Ventrue to be associated so closely with the Toreador wasn’t uncommon, but it was considered scandalous in other domains how welcoming and permissive Cazador was with the Tremere. The warlocks were deemed a necessary evil, though their methods were thought of as tasteless and looked upon with fear and skepticism, but Cazador made no secret of his admiration for their mysterious ways. It sickened Astarion, really. 

Although… Some nights, he found himself wondering what _he_ might do with such power—with their so-called “blood magic”—especially on nights when he entertained the thought of overthrowing Cazador’s long-lived reign. But it was only a pipe dream, nothing more. He knew that and accepted that fact, but it was still nice to dream. It helped him to sleep more soundly in his coffin at night, even with Cazador’s sarcophagus lying merely a few feet away.

Astarion would be relieved when he could return to the comfort of his velvet-lined casket, come to think of it. The romantic rendezvous with his secret lover and childe left him exhausted, and he desperately hoped that Cazador wouldn’t be able to see the unusual level of tiredness in his eyes when he dragged his feet to the Kindred-exclusive art gala after showing up almost an hour late. It didn’t help that the glass of high-quality blood he’d picked up from an attendant on the way to meet with his master was trembling in his grasp, even after taking a few sips to regain some of his energy.

Blood simply didn’t have the same potent kick to it when it wasn’t “straight from the tap”, as they say, and Astarion had been drinking reserved blood nearly the entire night already. He’d have to remedy that either on the way home or tomorrow evening when the time came.

“Where have you _been_?” Cazador hissed quietly the moment his most irresponsible childe came to his side. “Do you realize how embarrassing it is for me, as prince, to try and explain your absence every time you can’t be bothered to show up to important gatherings on time?”

“I like to be fashionably late, sire,” Astarion said with a charming grin as he brought his glass to his lips, letting his smart mouth get the better of him.

If they weren’t being watched by some of the most notable vampires in their community, Astarion _knew_ he would have been slapped across the face for his insolence. But thankfully, one of the few freedoms that he had was the ability to make the occasional sassy comment while they were in public, without being punished for it. Well, not _right away_ , at least. Eventually, on a night far from now, Cazador would be at his writing desk, coming up with his latest uninspired poem, and pause as he recalled a time when Astarion acted out of turn. Then, he’d get up, find his childe, and beat him within an inch of his unlife without explanation until he begged for mercy and forgiveness that was never truly given in the end.

But for now, Astarion would take enjoyment in the fact that here, his cruel sire couldn’t touch him. Though he hated these little get-togethers, they were his one true Elysium from his master’s unyielding ire.

Unclenching his jaw, Cazador whispered angrily, “You’re a shame to the Ventrue and our clan’s noble legacy, you ungrateful little _whelp_.” 

The prince’s expression suddenly changed like a light switch being flipped when a pair of Tremere approached. Now, Cazador was all smiles and geniality when he turned to the pair of women, but he only focused on one of them—the older one with the serious face. “Good afternoon, dearest elder of clan Tremere,” Cazador said in a silky voice, bowing humbly at the waist to the one that he addressed. “It pleases me to see that you could make it to the event. I realize that your important research keeps you very busy, and I hope my invitation hasn’t troubled you.”

“Not at all. I’m _always_ willing to make the time to come and see your work,” said the woman with a finger held to her chin ponderously. She was very thin and had angular features. Her eyes were hidden by a pair of dark shades—a common accessory for members of her secretive clan.

Her companion, meanwhile, was a chubby young woman with a soft face that sort of reminded Astarion of Elganon; shy and trying to become the other woman’s new shadow. She must have been the thin woman’s childe and was no doubt new to the Kindred world herself. 

The childe pretended not to be there while playing with her long, tangled locks that kept getting caught in the metallic beads of her handmade necklace decorated with runic symbols. Occasionally, her eyes would dart up to Cazador and Astarion, but would just as quickly look away again. She kept her gaze locked to the floor when, at one point, her eyes briefly met with Astarion’s and she realized that he could see her, the poor thing.

“Well, I must say that I’m humbled, my dear,” Cazador replied, taking the woman’s hand into his own and bringing it to his lips to plant a kiss on her chilly knuckles. She gave only the faintest of smiles. “Were it not for your help, I wouldn’t be able to create such works in the first place. Have you seen my exhibit yet?”

“I wanted my first impression of it to be in your presence, my prince,” she answered. “Would you be so kind as to lead the way?”

“But of course.”

Despite being a significantly more prestigious and experienced vampire himself, Astarion felt more in common with the meek Tremere childe as he followed behind his sire while she shadowed hers. They were little more than accessories or pets to their respective superiors—to be seen only when they needed to be shown off, and preferably never to be heard.

“How long have you been one of the Kindred?” Astarion murmured to the young lady. He usually wasn’t so polite to those he perceived as lowly, but her similarities to his childe softened his blackened heart somewhat.

A quiet whimpering sound squeaked in her throat, and all she could manage was, “M-My sire says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, especially not those from other clans…” She turned her head the other way while she clutched the charms dangling from her necklace nervously with her fingers, rubbing them perhaps for good luck, or whatever it is that the Tremere did with their magic.

He didn’t take the rejection of his inquiry personally. Not all childer were as bold as he was about defying their sires’ wishes, and he couldn’t entirely blame her for that. He knew he was a fool for constantly provoking his master’s hot temper, but someone within his own inner circle had to do it, lest his ego become _too_ overinflated.

They arrived at an exhibit that, unlike most of the other art pieces, wasn’t a painting or a statue—it was a person; a ghoul sitting on his knees on a pedestal with his wrists and ankles bound by gold-threaded rope. 

The man was stunned by a dominance spell but appeared to be weary and in pain. His back, which was turned towards the crowd, was the main focus of the exhibition. Upon it was Cazador’s latest poem, written in Latin (Astarion could barely make out the words since his mind tended to wander when Cazador gave him lessons on the language), and scarred permanently into the ghoul’s back with Tremere blood magic that made it into more than just a poem; the words were now an enchantment, but of what nature, Astarion couldn’t tell. Perhaps it was what made the ghoul’s mind so lost to the world around him, as if he’d been lobotomized. Or maybe, Cazador _had_ lobotomized him. Either were equally as in-character for his horrid sire, who behaved more like a Tzimisce than a Ventrue in recent years.

“You’re getting better,” said the Tremere elder, sounding impressed. “Not bad at all for a Ventrue. I’m very proud of your progress, Prince Szarr.”

“Please, you may simply call me Cazador. Between us, there is no need for formalities,” he responded smoothly.

Astarion rolled his eyes at all the blatant flattery that was going on. If his sire loved the Tremere and the Toreadors so well, then why didn’t he just diablerize one or both of them? Since he was a prince, if anyone in this city could get away with consuming the soul of another vampire to take on the essence of their clan, it’d be him. Astarion might do it if he could. Who didn’t _want_ to become more powerful?

It occurred to Astarion has he glanced at the ghoul on display again that those scars on his back looked very much like the ones he felt on his own, only fresher. Had Cazador… _done_ something to him? If so, then why couldn’t he remember being subjected to something as barbaric as that? Surely, he would remember…right?

Astarion’s back burned again, and he tried to reach far enough to scratch at it. In the process, he spilled some of the blood from his glass, staining his nice white shirt that Cazador had tailored specially for him. “Damn it,” he hissed.

Cazador spun around and frowned at his childe, who was making a fool of himself. “Astarion, return to the manor and get yourself cleaned up. I don’t know what’s gotten into you tonight, but frankly, I’ve had enough of it already.”

“But, sire, I—”

“ _Go_.”

Astarion would have blushed if he could. He overheard the sound of some of the Toreador laughing at him behind politely covered mouths; their kind were so judgmental about clumsiness. A person couldn’t reasonably be elegant and graceful _all_ the time, not even himself!

“Very well, then,” he relented, sulking in his disgrace. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, sire. If you need me, I’ll be in my coffin…”

Astarion took his glass with him, figuring that it wouldn’t be missed. He needed what was left of his drink, anyway, to help drown his misery. He was tired of being treated like a child rather than a childe in front of his peers, especially since his status would indicate that he deserved much higher respect and dignity than that.

He _hated_ Cazador Szarr.

He wondered if Elganon still might be awake at this hour. Though he didn’t really like being in the young man’s tiny and messy apartment, he enjoyed his company a lot more than his sire’s. There was still plenty of time before sunrise. He expected that he’d be subjected to another night of being shown the latest additions to Elganon’s growing collection of plastic garbage that he was buying with a portion of his cut of their drug money, but it was worth it if they could be together again for a little while longer.

Maybe by now, Orebos would be fast asleep, and he and Elganon could do more than just chat and look at silly little figurines. He needed another chance to prove his sexual prowess, especially after the events at the art gala had upset his pride even further. But most importantly, he simply wanted to be with his newfound paramour.

Astarion never thought he’d love like this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I used to dance. Thought I was dancin' for peace. I used to dance. I thought the music was sweet. It was just 'cause the drugs matched the beat."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Cocaine Trade by Christian Hansen & the Autistics


	4. Chapter 4

Elganon was still coming down from the high of being next to his sire, even an hour after Astarion left out the bedroom window again that night. He knew that it wouldn’t be long before the emotional crash came and left him feeling his lugubrious self again, but for now, he would enjoy the sensation of his dead skin tingling and his mind racing with dreams of their next encounter. He wanted to be with him again. Why couldn’t Astarion take him away, and try to convince his sire Cazador that Elganon was a worthy childe? Elganon didn’t think that he _was_ worthy, but Astarion had a way of persuading people…

He jumped at the rattling at the front door of the apartment when the knob was turned. As one of the Kindred, most of his senses had been heightened significantly, and he could hear it even with his bedroom door closed. It was probably Orebos coming home late from the hospital after checking up on Uncle Tabby’s broken leg situation, but Elganon hoped that perhaps his sire had forgotten something when he was there earlier.

“Astarion?” the young man called out, getting up from his bed and slinking into the cramped living room where he proceeded to tiptoe over cardboard boxes, discarded shoes, a dumbbell that had rolled away from its stand, and pairs of his adoptive father’s dirty socks. He meant to get around to cleaning all of this up, but every time that he did make the time to do so, it took only a day or two for the apartment to end up as messy as if he hadn’t bothered at all for several weeks. Astarion’s home was surely much better than this…

The door handle kept moving, being jerked more impatiently.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Elganon laughed, fumbling with the numerous locks hurriedly, but leaving the chain lock attached out of habit.

He cracked open the door, smiling in the hopes that Astarion would be on the other side, but it wasn’t him at all. It wasn’t Orebos or Tabalecus, either. He didn’t know who this stranger was.

“A-Ah, I think you have the wrong apartment,” Elganon said in a hurry, trying to shut the door, but it was kept open by the unfamiliar man’s foot. Now he was really starting to panic. “…I-If you’re looking to _buy_ , we don’t do business out of our home. You’ll have to find our sellers when they’re out on the streets—”

The safety mechanism of the gun in the stranger’s hand was disabled as he squeezed the weapon in through the cracked door and put the barrel to Elganon’s forehead. “Open the door,” demanded the man calmly.

Elganon hesitated, frozen in terror.

“Do it,” the stranger barked. “ _Now_.”

“O-Okay,” Elganon squeaked. 

His hands kept slipping as he attempted to undo the chain lock, but finally he managed to get it off before the other man ripped the door open himself. Then, with the barrel pressing harder into his skin, Elganon was guided all the way back to the nearest wall. He yelped and squeezed his eyes shut when he tripped over the dumbbell on the way there, expecting the gun to go off, but it didn’t. Instead, he sat there on the nasty carpet floor, back against the wall with the gun barrel moving over to lock down his temple when he turned his head, unable to bare witnessing whatever happened next to him.

Elganon was crying, but it hardly disturbed the black eyeliner or mascara lining his eyes and lashes; the makeup had seemingly been preserved in time by his Embrace, and since he had wept prior to it, the streaks running down his face already were made permanent. It _could_ be removed, but it would always come back on its own like a self-repairing organism eventually. He could only hope that the same would happen to his head if his brains were blown out of his skull right now. That was a question he hadn’t thought to ask Astarion, but he wished he had.

“Ple-Please, you d-don’t have to do th-this,” the young vampire whimpered, struggling to speak between his choked sobs.

First, he thought that this man was here about the drugs. Maybe one of the ghouls gave him a bad deal or had sold him something that was tampered with that killed a loved one of his. Then, he wondered if the stranger knew what he was—knew that he was a monster that fed off the living now. He only fed when Astarion was around to help him acquire suitable prey, and surely his sire’s aura was enough to leave their victims totally unaware of what had happened to them. Astarion was careful, he thought, and he couldn’t imagine that someone was a witness to their crimes against nature. Right?

The man _definitely_ knew what he was. He’d taken a stake out of his open coat and was raising it above his head. Elganon was going to die, wasn’t he? Oh God, he was going to die—for good this time.

“No, please! Please!” Elganon shrieked, holding his arms up defensively and trembling harder. “Mercy! I’m begging you!”

But it was too late; the stake was plunged deep into his heart, and everything went black after that. This is what it was like in those brief moments that Elganon felt his life slip away during the Embrace. The rest of the world just drifted away.

* * *

Cazador held his arms behind his back as he paced in a circle around the crumpled-up form on the cold ground in his cellar, scrutinizing it harshly. He stopped to nudge one of the thin pale arms with his boot and exhaled sharply through his nostrils, bemused. The boy wasn’t much, hardly Kindred material at all, and especially not suited for the Ventrue clan— _his_ clan. Cazador could only guess that Astarion’s interest in the boy was purely carnal at the time of his Embrace. After all, Ventrue were _very_ picky eaters, and he discovered that Astarion had developed a taste for Kine that looked like… Well, Kine that resembled Cazador himself, to some degree. That always amused the vampiric prince, especially these nights when his childe had grown to detest him.

The callous tyrant knelt beside the unmoving body and grabbed the boy’s jaw in one hand, turning his head to get a better look at it. The skin was so smooth—too smooth to indicate that the young man could grow a beard to match Cazador’s. The childe was a pathetic little pup in every way, but very pretty, nonetheless. Beauty without substance, the prince thought. One of the younger generation of Toreador might have liked to have someone like this as their childe, but a wiser elder would think twice with their more refined tastes.

But the further Cazador examined the body, he found more disappointing things to concern himself with. Deciding that he had seen enough, he exited the cellar and went to go find Astarion. That shouldn’t be difficult since his childe was quite predictable in nature. He even foresaw this forbidden Embrace occurring despite his wishes, but he simply hadn’t known when it would happen or to whom.

* * *

“Astarion.”

The childe in question turned away from the fireplace, putting on a fake smile for his sire and bowing before Cazador humbly. “Yes, master? What can I do for you?”

Cazador came close, dangerously close, and when Astarion took a few steps back, he shortened the gap between them further. “You can start by explaining your choice in childer to me,” he said bitterly.

“Wh-What?” Astarion blinked, pretending to be more confused than surprised. “I-I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, sire—”

“Lie to anyone you wish—lie to _yourself_ , if you must—but don’t lie to _me_ , boy.” The prince grabbed his childe by the throat, pressing his thumb against Astarion’s Adam’s apple that bobbed when the younger vampire gulped underneath his touch.

“Where is he?” Astarion snapped, panicked. “Ha-Have you hurt him?!”

“He’ll survive,” Cazador answered, then grinned, showing his fangs. “Probably. He’s in the cellar in torpor.”

“T-Torpor?!”

That bastard! He didn’t have to injure Elganon to the point of inducing _torpor_! That was the Kindred equivalent of sending him into a _coma_!

“It was purely unintentional, I assure you,” the elder sire explained coolly. “My ghoul said that he went into torpor the moment that he was staked.”

Astarion shook his head. “That’s not possible. It can’t be. That would mean—”

Cazador frowned very seriously. “You’ve created a thin-blood.” As he let go of his childe’s neck, Astarion dropped to his knees on his own accord, shocked by this revelation.

It all made sense now. That’s why Elganon’s fangs never fully developed. That was why he could easily make love without having to concentrate on the act. It was why much of the blush of life remained in his features, even though his childe’s natural pallor made that harder to notice, and it was why he couldn’t use any of the Kindred disciplines of power. He was barely a vampire at all, let alone Ventrue. Astarion thought it was all very strange, but he wanted to believe that with enough time and effort, his childe would develop into the noble traits of his clan. 

But that was never going to happen because Elganon was an accursed _thin-blood—a duskborn_. And it was all Astarion’s fault…

“You’re going to have him executed, aren’t you?” Astarion asked, body wobbling in his lightheadedness as he sat on his knees at the center of his master’s study. That was what happened to most thin-bloods; they were either executed publicly or murdered in a vampiric hate crime as soon as word broke out about an individual’s thin-blooded existence. There was little love or even tolerance for thin-bloods anywhere in Kindred society, and Cazador’s domain was particularly insular and unsympathetic to their fellow Kindred—those _within_ their community and _especially_ those without.

Cazador didn’t answer immediately; he was thinking. He strolled over to the hearth and wrapped his hand around the handle of a poker, removing it from its stand and eyeing it ponderously. He stabbed and prodded at the logs in the fireplace, rekindling the dying flames with caution since fire was very dangerous to their kind. “I may yet do so, but I think you should first be made to atone for your crime against our clan’s legacy. In order to do that, I want you to lay in the bed that you’ve made for yourself for a little while, _childe_.”

Astarion covered his face as he began to weep. He always wondered what was going to happen once Cazador inevitably discovered the existence of his childe, but this was the worst-case scenario. He dreamed that by the time the prince found out, Elganon would be a powerful Ventrue that could aid in overtaking him, but now that he knew his only childe was a pitiful weakling that was barely much stronger than your average Kine, what hope of survival did they have now? He wished that this were all a horrible nightmare that he could wake up from, but it was no dream, just the horrible reality crashing down around him.

When Cazador returned to his side, the hot poker was still clutched in his hand. Astarion already predicted the ensuing beating before the first blow landed against his back, searing through his clothing, and burning his flesh. He cried out sharply in immense pain, and then came another strike. And another. And another. It was endless, and it seemed to go on for an eternity, even when Astarion was barely conscious and laying face-down in the floor, wailing, and squirming helplessly. He didn’t even try to fight back. There was no use. It would only make the beatings _worse_ , so it was better to lay down and accept it—every bruise and burn that would take _weeks_ if not _months_ to fully heal, unlike normal wounds.

Though the prince’s manor was filled with servants and in it lingered his other childer, no one disturbed the privacy of the beating Cazador was administrating upon his disobedient childe. They never did. Not only because no one dared to upset Cazador, but because it was generally felt among the ghouls and other childer that Astarion brought everything ill that happened to him upon himself. Astarion was practically the prince’s right-hand man, and he squandered it by worrying over the few things that he could not do without restriction in his sire’s domain. Most Kindred in this city didn’t have half of the privileges he had.

So, Astarion howled and clawed at the expensive rug that was becoming stained with his own blood and pleaded for his master’s benevolence as he was pummeled until the poker ran cold again and Cazador grew tired of swinging his arm. The poker was tossed with a clang next to the tool stand at the fireplace, and the riled-up Kindred prince moved to sit behind his writing desk, flaring his nostrils until he calmed himself down.

“Get out of my sight,” Cazador demanded, removing a cloth from a drawer in his desk to clean Astarion’s blood off himself with. He scoffed at all the vitae that he removed from his hands and his face. “Just _look_ at this mess that you’ve made,” he hissed quietly, blaming his childe for his own temper.

It took him a while, but Astarion shakily crawled onto his hands and knees, then slowly stood up. He lost balance momentarily, but he managed to catch himself before he fell to the ground. His fanciful clothing was in tatters, and he looked like he’d been mauled by a tiger with flaming claws. He could barely stand, let alone walk out of the room, but there was no way he was going to remain in the study with Cazador.

He had to go down to the cellar and find Elganon before it was too late. God, _please_ let him still be alive.

* * *

Astarion had tracked blood all throughout the manor as he made his way down the various hallways and staircases, but it wouldn’t be much longer until he reached the bottom of the cellar. A lingering sense of dread followed him the entire way. He didn’t want to get his hopes up too high and kept telling himself to expect the worst.

Sure enough, Elganon was there, comatose on the floor in a deep torpor with a stake jutting out of his chest. He looked dead in the way that he lay there, unmoving, with his black hair obscuring his pale face and spilling out onto the floor. Astarion hurried to kneel beside him, pulling his childe into his arms to get a firm grip on the wooden stake and remove it from his narrow chest. Elganon did not stir, and that confirmed Cazador’s theory that his childe was a thin-blood. A normal Kindred would have awakened immediately the moment the stake was dislodged, and they wouldn’t have gone into torpor, they merely would have been paralyzed.

It was a stupid thing to do in his own weakened state, but Astarion found the worst of the open wounds on his arm from Cazador’s beating and pressed it to Elganon’s lips. He winced with pain as he forced more blood from the tear, squeezing it hard with a hand while allowing the back of his childe’s head to rest against his chest. Feeding Elganon some of his blood would reduce the length of his torpor significantly, depending on how much internal damage he sustained from the stake.

“Please wake up,” Astarion begged, thinning his lips as he drove more blood out of his opened veins and into his childe’s mouth. “I’ll give you all of it if I have to, just please wake up.”

Elganon’s eyes shot open, and he appeared as frightened as he was when the stranger attacked him earlier that night. He was relieved to see Astarion hovering above him, but once it registered in his mind how severely injured his sire was, he was terrified all over again. “Astarion, what happened to you?! Wh-Where are we?! What’s going on?!”

Astarion spun Elganon’s body around to face him, pulled his childe’s head towards his own, and brought him into a string of back-to-back kisses. He didn’t want to trouble Elganon with the answer to any of those questions; he wanted nothing more than to appreciate the time they had left together, however long that may be. Elganon, though he was shaking fearfully, draped his arms around his lover’s neck, kissing him back with equal zeal in the hopes that it would calm him. He could tell that Astarion was as afraid as he was, but of what, he did not know.

“Elganon,” his sire gasped, realizing that he probably should elucidate on _some_ things. “There’s something very important that I have to tell you because I owe you a very, very deep apology…” Guilt appeared in his otherwise predatory eyes.

“What is it? Whatever it is, you don’t have to worry about it. I love you no matter what—”

“No, you don’t understand. There’s been…” Astarion wasn’t sure how to describe it. “There’s been an _accident_ with your Embrace.”

Elganon fidgeted uncomfortably, his pupils dilating. “What do you mean there’s been an accident? Have I done something wrong?”

Astarion shook his head. “No, but I have… I’ve made you into a thin-blood.”

“What’s that?”

“It means that you’re not a Ventrue like myself—not a _true_ Kindred. You’re only…a diluted version of one, at best. You’re stuck like this forever, and you’ll _never_ be like me.” Astarion’s unbeating heart sank into the pit of his stomach as he confessed this, mournful of that fact. “You won’t have any of my powers, you won’t be accepted into Kindred society, and most importantly, people are going to try to take you away from me…”

Elganon’s fingers clutched the shreds that were all of what remained of Astarion’s shirt. “N-No… Please, Astarion, you can’t let that happen! You can’t let anyone separate us! Don’t let them hurt me!”

Astarion patted his childe’s cheeks as tears began to roll down them, shushing the hysterical young man. “I’ll do _everything_ in my power to protect you, my love. Don’t cry, everything’ll be alright. I’m here for you right now, so please don’t cry,” he pleaded, but Elganon buried his face into his chest and bawled horribly. All he could do was hold him tightly and rock him side-to-side in his arms.

“I’m so sorry, Elganon. I didn’t mean to do this to you. If I could take it all away, I would,” he muttered, sobbing himself. “I’m sorry…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When the night was full of terrors, and your eyes were filled with tears. When you had not touched me yet... Oh, take me back to the night we met."
> 
> Recommended Listening: The Night We Met by Lord Huron


	5. Chapter 5

Although it was nice to be out of the cellar of Prince Cazador’s haunting estate, the occasion for which Elganon was hauled into the sitting room made him wish his captor hadn’t bothered at all. Waiting for him were two strangers in the room that wore equally strange clothing that invoked thoughts of modern sorcerers. One was a handsome well-groomed man appearing in his early thirties with golden filigree facial tattoos, and beside him was a slightly older-looking woman his polar opposite that appeared much less lively (as far as the undead went) with her dour, color-drained appearance and gaunt, angular features.

“Who are these people?” Elganon asked, looking to Cazador for answers. It didn’t occur to him how bold it was to make direct eye-contact with a Kindred prince, otherwise he would have kept his gaze towards the floor.

Cazador gave a fanged smile, presenting the pair. “Allow me to introduce Primogen Regent Morgana Wagner and Magister Thomas Basu, two well-respected members of our local Tremere chantry. Astarion _has_ told you about the various clans in our community, hasn’t he?” He peered over at his mentioned childe in the corners of his eyes, casting judgment.

“They’re the…warlocks, aren’t they?” Elganon tried to gauge the reactions of the two Tremere, hoping he hadn’t used offensive terminology without knowing so. If anything, the handsome one seemed mildly amused, though the expression of his superior hadn’t changed at all; she continued to stare at the thin-blood analytically.

Cazador nodded at the fledgling, vaguely impressed. “Ah, very good. Can you imagine why they are here?”

Elganon was clueless, but Astarion’s increasing discomfort gave him reason to worry. “They’re not going to kill me, are they?”

The prince laughed. “If that’s all I wanted, I would’ve had my ghoul do that rather than bring you here in the first place. No, they are here to…conduct a ritual of sorts.” He clasped his hands together politely. “Purely for the sake of your protection in my domain, I assure you. Your kind—thin-bloods—are not looked upon favorably in Kindred society, but this will at least mark you as an affiliate of the Camarilla. That may _deter_ some of the Kindred who hold prejudices towards your ilk.”

Elganon shifted uncomfortably in the bindings that kept his arms restrained behind his back. “Mark?”

The magister, Thomas, produced an ornate box that he went to unpack on the coffee table. He beckoned Astarion to bring the thin-blood over and sit him down on the couch in front of the table as he got out what appeared to be tools used for tattooing. The methods were a little archaic in design, but then again, _any_ kind of needle that was going to go into him frightened Elganon.

Elganon squirmed and resisted as Astarion dragged him to the couch. It wasn’t as if Astarion wanted to take him there, but what choice did he have with Cazador watching? Astarion knew that this was all part of his sire’s plan to make both of them suffer for their crimes, and if he didn’t do as he was told, he’d probably end up right next to Elganon in the cellar. As a thin-blood, Elganon could survive off the rats that crawled around down there. As a Ventrue, Astarion couldn’t. His delicate and picky pallet made it impossible to get any nourishment from animal blood.

Thomas was prepared to begin his work as soon as Elganon was plopped down in front of him, but Cazador stopped him by saying, “Wait. Allow Astarion to do it instead, under your direction. I think it would be educational, as he lacks appreciation for your clan’s unique talents.”

Astarion backed off, drawing the line there. “Wh-What? No, I refuse. I won’t—”

“You _will_ ,” Cazador commanded, narrowing his eyes threateningly until his childe returned to his spot next to the thin-blood.

Morgana sat down in the armchair across from the couch, folding her hands, and granted Thomas permission to pass the tools over to Astarion with a nod. It sickened Astarion just to hold the needle in his fingers.

He seated himself beside Elganon and placed the container full of strange ink in his lover’s lap. His eyes pleaded preemptively for forgiveness, but nothing on his childe's terrified face indicated that he’d be granted any.

“It’d be best if you put it on his forehead,” said Thomas helpfully. “Easier for Kindred and ghouls alike to notice that way. A simple crescent moon shape will do. Not that difficult to draw. Most of the magic’s in the ink, and I’ve already imbued the needle myself.”

“O-On his _forehead_?” said Astarion. “Won’t the _Kine_ notice that as well?” 

He’d certainly deem it a Masquerade violation himself, but he suspected that his title of sheriff no longer accounted for much to Cazador after creating a thin-blood behind his sire’s back, if it ever mattered all that much to begin with. Honestly, Astarion always believed that if a higher-ranking official of the Camarilla were to take a look around the city these nights, they might not be able to walk five steps without bumping into a whole slew of violations, be they technical or blatant. But come to think of it, there hadn’t _been_ an inspection in a long time. Years, in fact. Were the other members of the Camarilla outside of their local network really _that_ preoccupied? Astarion had his doubts, although he did find himself so busy these nights that he hadn’t left the city in…had it already been over ten years?

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Kine have tattoos all over the place these nights. Worst case scenario, it makes it difficult for him to land himself a day job.” He chuckled. “Day job. I can be so clever sometimes.” His charming smile soon faded, resembling an expression that was closer to what Astarion was used to from his clan. 

“Anyway, let’s get on with it. We have other places to be. I’ve got a new apprentice to teach, and I’d rather be doing that instead of hand-holding you on Tremere practices.” Forgetting his present company, Thomas then muttered, “As if a Ventrue’s going to understand how all of this works…”

Cazador glared at the magister.

“A-Aside from our _dear prince_ , obviously. If any Ventrue could, it would be him,” Thomas said, correcting himself. He rubbed his hands together anxiously, on the verge of sweating little blood droplets from his pores.

When Astarion said that he had a “difficult boss”, Elganon didn’t imagine the man would turn out to be a literal tyrant. It was scary to think that this Cazador was ruling the city he’d been living in for the past several years from the shadows, no doubt calling more of the shots than the Kine politicians.

“Don’t do this, Astarion,” Elganon whispered to his sire, scooting closer to him until his side was leaned against Astarion’s. He was careful not to spill the ink container in his lap, treating it like it was full of acid. “ _Please_.”

“I-I’ll make it very pretty,” Astarion murmured back, as if such a compromise would make things any better. “It’ll look good on you!”

“ _I’ll look like a freak and a cultist_ ,” his childe said.

“Look, this is going to happen whether you or I want it to or not. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be. Close your eyes, and I’ll get this done as quickly as I can. It’ll all be over soon, I promise.”

Elganon frowned bitterly. “You promise a lot of things that don’t come true…”

Astarion’s grip on the needle tightened, leaving indents in his fingers from the pressure. His childe was right, but things weren’t supposed to turn out this way. Not that Astarion put much thought into creating his vampiric progeny in the first place; it was all on a whim. He let his feeding preferences take control of his decision-making capabilities. But if he didn’t turn Elganon right then and there where they met, he wasn’t sure he’d ever see the man again. Astarion might have regretted not making the move, when he had his chance, for the rest of his immortal life and dwelled on “what if”, should the young man disappear and never be seen again after his close encounter with one of the Kindred. There were a lot of “what if’s” that Astarion was already weighed down by. At least now he knew the outcome to this one.

The needle was dipped into the ink while Astarion steadied Elganon’s head with a hand. The thin-blood was whimpering before the needle even came near, and the noises became louder when it actually touched his skin. Astarion thought it would all be much simpler than it really was, like writing his signature on a dotted line. He failed to realize that he would have to poke his childe repeatedly with the tip of the needle, over and over, and it would take ages to make even an outline of the crescent moon. According to Thomas’ following instructions, he would have to color in the entire thing.

Elganon screamed in agony with each stab of the needle, clutching the back of the upholstered couch with his bound hands. Little trails of smoke were coming from the surface of the fledgling vampire’s skin. He was not only being inked by the enchanted needle, but he was also being _burned_ by it, as if touched by sunlight. The irritated skin puffed up, scarring almost immediately in the shape of the crescent moon.

_This is how Cazador creates his works of “art”_ , Astarion realized morbidly. Memories were recalled of the rash-like bumps he felt on his back that occasionally flared up with a burning sensation on some nights. _This is what he’s done to me, too…_

What, then, was he doing to his childe? It couldn’t have been nothing more than a permanent tattoo that required blood magic to prevent it from fading away on Kindred skin in a matter of days as regular tattoos would. There had to be more to it, but what?

Cazador noticed that Astarion’s needlework came to an abrupt stop, and he wasn’t too pleased about that. “What’s wrong? You’re nearly done. Hurry up. I won’t have you wasting my colleagues’ time.”

“What does this mark do, other than tell people what he is?” Astarion faced his sire, insisting on an answer before he proceeded.

“It’s not your place to ask. I gave you an order, and I expect you to fulfill it, childe.” Cazador walked behind the couch, hovering over Astarion’s shoulder. “Unless you would like to join him in the cellar.”

“But, sire, you must see how, as sheriff of our community, it would make it difficult for me to tend to my duties if I’m completely unaware of how these things work.” Astarion steeled his nerves, confident that if he kept a straight face, the prince wouldn’t be able to call his bluff.

His sire relented. “All you need to know is that this new method will ultimately make your job simpler compared to the…usual way in which we go about dealing with the thin-blood population here.”

“And how long has this been an option?” Astarion demanded.

“Around ten years.”

The answer placed a heavy weight on Astarion’s conscience. Ten years. They could have been doing _this_ instead for ten years, as opposed to-

“Mind you, I still believe that the “old way” is preferable, but your childe will be a test subject of sorts,” said Cazador. He patted Elganon’s head, making the fledgling tremble. “Perhaps if he can prove himself worthy, I might consider making the mark the city’s default choice for handling any other thin-bloods discovered in the future.”

“But what does it _do_?” Astarion asked again.

Cazador turned to Morgana, allowing her to answer with a gesture that indicated she had the floor.

“Simply put, if your thin-blood breaks the Masquerade and decides to go rogue, we’ll know,” she said coolly. “And you won’t have to hunt him down like you normally would with Kindred who violate Camarilla law.”

In other words, Elganon would be a second-class citizen among the Kindred. That wasn’t entirely unexpected and was probably preferable to the alternative. Still, the fact that he would be robbed of any sense of privacy, on top of his dignity being taken away as well, didn’t sit right with Astarion, but when he looked back to Elganon to reluctantly continue applying the mark, the fledgling’s eyes were devoid of hope. Elganon had already accepted his fate. As the needle went back to boring into his skin, he barely reacted aside from a wince or two. Tears were running down his eyes, but he didn’t make a sound.

“Would he like to see the results?” Thomas asked Astarion excitably when the deed was done, presenting a small hand mirror that came from the tattooing supply box.

They treated Elganon as if he were barely even there or couldn’t speak for himself. He really wasn’t a person in their eyes, was he? This was nearly identical to the way Kine were spoken about, like dumb animals.

Astarion returned the needle and container of ink to the Tremere man, accepting the hand mirror in exchange. He held it out so that Elganon could see himself. “What do you think, darling?” he asked, faking enthusiasm for his childe’s sake. “I think it makes you more mysterious and charming, personally!” He meant that earnestly to some degree, but the meaning behind the symbol hindered much of his potential admiration for the new look.

Who _was_ that person staring back in the mirror? This was the first time Elganon really took a good look at himself since his Embrace. Sure, he’d seen a mirror since then, but he barely paid his reflection much mind since he no longer had to worry about applying new eye makeup every day. He hadn’t expected to see himself in a mirror at all because of the folklore he’d heard about vampires that insinuated they couldn’t. Astarion explained that only one clan had that issue, as far as he was aware, but even with that newfound knowledge, Elganon was a little afraid to peer at himself for too long. He might not have liked what he saw. He didn’t like it _now_.

“I look damaged,” Elganon fretted.

What he saw reminded him of days when he came down with the flu or some other illness. It _was_ him, but he didn’t look _well_. And now he had a moon symbol etched into his forehead. No wonder people were more put off by him than usual lately; he looked like he had something contagious. In life, it was his awkward body language and timid voice that unnerved others on a subconscious level because it made him come across as suspicious and weird. All of that was going to get worse when he walked the streets with a strange face tattoo that stuck out like a sore thumb.

But that was the one silver lining to all of this: He was going to be walking the streets again. Finally, now that this humiliating ritual was all over with, he could be free. They were going to free him, weren’t they?

“Well done, Astarion,” said Cazador, smiling ominously. “Now take him back down to the cellar and be sure to chain him down. We don’t want him getting loose. Although we can track him now, we wouldn’t want him to get himself harmed, would we?”

Elganon panicked. He stood up from his seat, but Astarion quickly grabbed ahold of him, gripping his restrained wrists rigidly to keep him in place.

“But I have the mark now!” Elganon cried out at the prince, trying to squirm free of his sire, but failing miserably. “Why are you doing this?! This isn’t fair!”

Astarion brought him around the couch to where Cazador was standing, and the prince bent over to lower himself closer to the short fledgling’s height. Being so close to Cazador’s imposing presence drained all the will to fight out of the thin-blood right away, and now Elganon stood still, behaving more obediently.

“For your own protection. Even with the mark, I can’t simply release you out into the wild just like that.” Cazador snapped his fingers at the last word. “You must be introduced to our community _properly_ first. It’s customary for _every_ new Kindred brought into the Camarilla.”

He paced over to Morgana and beckoned Thomas to come to him, then placed a hand on each of their shoulders fondly. Thomas practically shriveled under the intimidating prince’s touch while his superior, Morgana, was completely unfazed. 

“There’s only one issue,” Cazador continued. “ _How_ do we introduce you without making it apparent how you came to be? I can trust Regent Wagner and Magister Basu here with this secret, but I cannot let it become public knowledge that _my_ childe sired a _thin-blood_. Without my permission, no less. It would _ruin_ me. You should thank me for my mercy.” 

Elganon’s eyes followed Cazador as he came near again; the prince’s demeanor was reminiscent of a prowling lion: territorial, paranoid, and arrogant. 

“Any other prince in my situation would have slain you on the spot, but I am giving you a chance to contribute to Kindred society. Remember that the next time you consider disrespecting me again. Astarion will tell you how little patience I have for _whining_.”

Without warning, Cazador struck Elganon across the face with the back of his hand. The pain sent the thin-blood stumbling back into Astarion’s chest. Astarion barely managed to catch him before he tumbled to the ground, and he had to hold the thin-blood up just to keep him on his feet at all. The impact was so forceful that it stunned Elganon momentarily. If he were still mortal, he could have been rendered unconscious instead. Blood was oozing from his nostril.

“Cazador, leave him alone!” Astarion ordered, pulling the fledgling several feet away. He wiped the blood dripping down Elganon’s face with the sleeve of his shirt, empathetic to his dazed childe’s suffering. “This is going too far. You can’t possibly fault him for being confused and afraid. I’ll take him back to the cellar, but don’t touch him again!”

Cazador rubbed the back of his hand as it stung ever so slightly from the punishment he dispensed. “Is that a plea or a command, _boy_?”

Astarion kept Elganon close; the nearness of another body brought him comfort when he was glowered at by his master. “ _Please_. Please, don’t touch him again. _I’m_ his sire; I should be the one to handle things.”

“And if I ask you to strike him when he misbehaves, will you do it?”

“I-I… If it comes to that, then yes.”

“Then prove it.”

“He’s already—”

“ _Strike him for his disobedience._ ”

The Tremere were watching Astarion silently, waiting for him to obey. It made the situation all the more shameful. Why did they have to remain here for this? 

Everywhere in Cazador’s city, the Tremere were always there, watching everyone and everything. Cazador not only let them do it freely, but he also encouraged and praised it. 

Even that young Tremere childe Astarion met at the art gala judged him, saw him as beneath her. She was so meek and sheepish, and yet he caught the subtle scowl in her eyes behind her round spectacles. That’s how they _all_ looked at him. The Tremere knew that Cazador elevated their entire clan above Astarion’s rank as sheriff, and no matter what heinous acts they committed, even if it happened right in front of his face, he could not touch them. Cazador wouldn’t allow it. They were too precious to him.

Thomas spoke up. “I would listen to your sire, if I were you…”

_Fucking Tremere…_

Astarion slapped Elganon, hard. He allowed his childe to fall this time. He had to, he believed. It wouldn’t have been convincing enough otherwise.

“Wh-Why are you hurting me, Astarion?” Elganon sobbed into the rug, unable to get back up. He wasn’t making much of an effort to stand, anyway. He was afraid that he’d be hit again if he did, so what was the point? “Why…”

Cazador applauded, grinning madly. “Good show, Astarion. Good show. I knew you still had some loyalty for me, somewhere deep down.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Now run along. Back to the cellar with your little thin-blooded childe.”

Like a dog fleeing with its tail between its legs, Astarion lifted Elganon up off the ground and took him down the stairs back where he’d came from. Astarion was too numb to hear the blood-curdling wailing that came from his childe the entire way back to the cellar.

* * *

Delirious with rage mixed with sorrow, Elganon banged his head against the wooden door of the cell he was being kept in while Astarion was unlocking it, and he had to be stopped before he hurt himself any further.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, you lunatic!? Stop that!” Astarion barked. The stress of tonight’s events made his patience thin, so he could hardly take any more strain on his already frazzled nerves.

Elganon halted, glaring his sire down with half of his face scratched up now. He spat in Astarion’s face.

Astarion opened his mouth to speak, but he was spat at again. Furious, he wrestled with the thin-blood, who was putting up more of a struggle than he did earlier, and when he had Elganon pinned to the stone wall, his childe snapped at him with his tiny little fangs like an angry small dog. He even made growls that were similar to those of an upset chihuahua.

Sighing, Astarion held Elganon’s face to the wall with a palm, easily ending the mediocre attempts to bite him. Now they were stuck staring at each other awkwardly, until Elganon was the first to avert his gaze out of embarrassment.

“This is the worst day of my life,” Elganon muttered, frowning.

Astarion tried to smile. “On the bright side, you’re technically not alive anymore.”

“…I hope a vampire hunter nails you to a cross and leaves you out in the sun, Astarion.”

“You don’t really mean that, do you?”

“…No. I’m just angry. And my head hurts. And I want to go home and see my family again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“It won’t be like this forever. I’m going to make this all up to you, I—”

“Astarion?”

“Hm?”

“No more promises. I’m tired of them. Just do whatever it is you have to do. It’s not like I can stop you, anyway.”

Astarion was gentler this time when he led Elganon into the cell and traded his current restraints for the barbaric chains that awaited him there. It was surreal to have to tell someone you loved them as you locked them up in a dungeon to rot away for an indefinite amount of time, but this was the world Astarion became accustomed to. Perhaps one night, when Elganon was an older Kindred and more adjusted to what things were like for their kind, they could look back at this moment and laugh without grudges or hard feelings remaining on either end.

“Could I have a kiss before I go?” Astarion asked, bending down next to Elganon on the floor and stroking the back of his neck affectionately.

Elganon turned his head with a sad expression, rejecting him.

“Please? Just one.” It would have made the guilt less heavy on Astarion’s mind, and he was ashamed to admit to himself that that was his main priority.

“Go away, please,” Elganon asked, moving as far from the man as his chains would allow. “I want to be left alone.”

“I wouldn’t be doing any of this if I had any other choice,” Astarion reminded him, crawling closer despite Elganon’s request.

The thin-blood was able to grab Astarion’s arms even with the heavy chains weighing him down since they were so close to one another. “Stop,” he said, pushing his sire away. “I don’t want to kiss you. Don’t make me do it; you’ve forced enough on me tonight already, haven’t you?”

Astarion backed off on his own once he was made more aware of his inappropriate assertiveness. It was in a Ventrue’s nature to instinctively want to dominate everyone around them, including other Ventrue, and it hadn’t occurred to him exactly what he was doing. 

“You’re right, I—” Astarion stood up and went to the door. “I’ll let you collect your thoughts. But just know that I never meant for any of this to happen.” He hesitated at the exit, waiting for a reply, but one never arrived. That was his cue to leave as he agreed.

There was always a time in a Kindred’s existence when they had to decide for themselves whether they were going to resist their nature or embrace it. Astarion spent the past few decades at that crossroads, unable to figure out which way he would go. It seemed easiest to let the chips fall wherever they may, and he often did. That mentality made it less difficult to be Cazador’s sheriff.

Once, he was performing executions on thin-bloods before the city’s Kindred community simply because of what they were, and now he was risking his own neck to try and save a single one.

Whenever Astarion believed that he was a step closer to understanding who he truly was, something would always come along and cause him to question everything he thought he knew about himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I will let you down. I will make you hurt."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Hurt by Nine Inch Nails


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter was written entirely as a gift for me from me. I have no regrets, but I am super sorry to anyone who might be a bit put-off by it.   
>  Also, yeah, I know I literally just uploaded Chapter 5, but I had to write this one as well because it was on my mind the entire evening at work. I like to write these things as soon as they occur to me, when possible. The fun and confusing angst train chugs along, into the night. It just feels right. Choo choo.)

Sliding the lid of his coffin open, Astarion crawled inside and sealed himself in, shutting himself off from the rest of the world. If only he could separate himself from his mind so easily without having to induce torpor. For now, he’d have to settle for sleep, since dawn was nearing. It was difficult to fall asleep with his thoughts still lingering on tonight’s events, but eventually the confines of his sarcophagus deprived him of his senses long enough that his consciousness slipped away on its own.

* * *

It had to have been the early 2000’s or late 1990’s when Astarion was introduced to Sebastian LaCroix. No one expected another prince to be the one who would come and do the inspection of Cazador’s domain, least of all Cazador. Evidently, the Prince of Los Angeles took a personal interest in the unique, albeit questionable, ideas Prince Szarr had for his city, and possibly even wanted to adopt some of his unusual strategies, provided they actually worked.

Regardless of his reasons for volunteering on behalf of his superiors in the Camarilla to perform the assessment, he was there in the audience one night when Astarion was called upon to “enforce the law” by executing another handful of thin-bloods. Not that Astarion knew that while he was performing his duties.

The thin-bloods weren’t causing any trouble, nor had they been found guilty of violating the Masquerade per se, but this was the fate that Cazador had offered _all_ thin-bloods in their city. At best, their only real crime was the fact that they were squatting in an abandoned building, and that was enough of an excuse to _claim_ it was a Masquerade violation by technicality. Usually, this sort of crime didn’t necessarily count unless Kine were made privy to it, but simply _being_ a thin-blood was a crime here at the time. Anything else that they were held accused of was merely an added justification for their slaughter, should any Kindred begin to doubt the morality of it all.

“Will none of you come forth with the identity of your sire?” Astarion asked one last time, peering between the three thin-bloods that huddled together in their chains.

It had become an epidemic. They were suddenly everywhere, these thin-bloods. Cazador was adamant that there must have been a Kindred in the city who was going out of their way to produce these weak-blooded childer; it seemed too much like of a concentrated effort to be coincidental. Maybe there were _multiple_ Kindred working together to churn out thin-blood after thin-blood. Whoever was doing it was going to pay dearly for their transgressions. The problem was solving the mystery when not a single thin-blood had been able to produce a name thus far.

“We told you, we don’t _know_ ,” said one of the two women among the trio. “ _Please_ let us go. We’ll leave town and go far away. You won’t ever see us again! We just want to be left alone!” 

She broke out into tears, as did her younger brother that hugged her tightly. The other woman—her lover—joined them, fearful of the end. Sadly, the touching display did little to move most of the Kindred in the audience. Many of the gathered vampires had lost touch with their sense of humanity and saw the exploits of Astarion’s weekly kangaroo court as little more than a play to come watch to stave off boredom in the insular city. Propaganda had convinced most that thin-bloods were the “other” and of negligible consequence at best, and a sign of the end times for Kindred—Gehenna, as they called it—at worst.

The few Kindred in the city who might have had the nerve to openly question these cruel undertakings were the members of the local Anarch group, a rebel faction which opposed the Camarilla’s strict ways, but they had been driven underground years prior. To even claim allegiance with the Anarchs in this city meant being put right beside the accused, next in line for the chopping block. 

There was a literal chopping block in Astarion’s courtroom, his personal touch for the dramatic. If people were going to die anyway, why not kill them with a bit of style? He always liked decapitation as a method of death. One good swing, and then…nothing. It wasn’t so bad, compared to other ways of dying, for the newly deceased, and it was entertaining for the still-unliving who got to observe as the head rolled clean off and usually ended up making a silly face. Provided that the Kindred being killed wasn’t particularly ancient, in which case they tended to turn to ash or spontaneously combust. That was no fun, but older Kindred tended to hate fun, so their method of departing suited them well.

“I’m afraid that we can’t simply let you skip town and go on your merry way, darling,” Astarion replied, grabbing his two-handed axe from the executioner’s block, and examined its recently sharpened blade. “Thin-bloods, especially those raised without sires, are the biggest risk to our existence as Kindred. Not only are your lot a potential catalyst of the Gehenna, but you’re the most prone to revealing our existence to the Kine. If you can’t point me towards the one responsible for your creation, I have no choice but to—”

“Wait, please,” interjected the thin-blooded man, holding his hand out. “We can take you to our, uh, “sire”. We just need time to find him. Give us a few days.”

Astarion smirked, giving his axe a playful twirl. “Right. You _do_ realize that I can read minds, and that I know you’re lying, yes?”

“Y-You can? Shit. I’m sorry. I—”

“Not really, but thank you for your confession,” Astarion jerked his head in the direction of the bloody slab. “Get to the block.”

“Please—”

“ _Obey me._ ”

Try as he might, the thin-blood suddenly couldn’t resist the Ventrue’s command. It was like some magical force had taken over, ensorcelling him to do Astarion’s bidding.

“ _No_!” his elder sister screeched as he trudged towards the block and knelt in front of it, laying his head down where many had laid before him.

The women were about to start yanking on the chains that connected them to pull him away, but they soon also found themselves entranced into passivity, watching vacantly when Astarion brought the blade of the axe down upon their companion’s throat, severing the head from his body. The sister retrieved her sibling’s decapitated head from the ground, blinking at it as if she hadn't recognized the man. She never saw the axe come to claim her own head, nor did her lover stood behind her, but at least it was all over with before either of them came to their senses.

Astarion truly believed back then that he was the most merciful of all of the Kindred in power within his master’s domain. In many cases, such as this one, he utilized the power in his Ventrue blood to make the guilty less aware of their own deaths. Of course, it wasn’t his fault that he _did_ get some excitement out of the killings—that was normal for Kindred—and surely his acts of mercy more than made up for that, right?

There were some Kindred who applauded at the end of the execution, a few sounds of disappointment for one reason or another, others chatted amongst themselves, but most remained silent and waited to be officially dismissed from the hearing. Astarion gestured for a couple of Cazador’s ghouls to come and clean up the mess, handing his axe off to one of them for it to be cleaned, and gave a polite bow to the audience.

“Encore!” someone shouted from the back with a laugh that was contagious among their peers.

Astarion looked back up and grinned. “Bring me a few more thin-bloods, and I’d be glad to make a repeat performance,” he teased, unsure of who made the comment, but amused by whomever said it, nonetheless. “Or better yet, whoever’s siring them all. Eugh.”

He kicked one of the heads away with his boot as he left the courtroom, making his way down an empty hall. He preferred to avoid the other Kindred after these trials; it gave him the peace he needed to reflect on it all. One Kindred, however, was following him; the heels of dress shoes were clicking against the marble flooring, and their distance was becoming shorter and shorter as the Kindred caught up with him.

“Impressive display,” said a sophisticated male voice. “Very theatric, but I can appreciate your flair. It's a shame what must often be done with the thin-bloods, but the responsibility of such difficult decisions weighs heavily on our heads as Ventrue, doesn't it?”

Astarion spun around to confront his admirer, only to be shocked by his identity. “Pr-Prince LaCroix? What are _you_ doing here?”

“I can hardly broaden my horizons in LA if I don’t see for myself how princes in other territories are running their cities,” Sebastian replied, glad to be recognized so readily outside of his own domain. “Your name is Astarion, correct? I didn’t see your sire anywhere among the audience. Is he not here?”

“He rarely ever comes to my trials anymore,” Astarion explained. “Says they’re too juvenile for his taste.”

“A pity,” said Sebastian, sighing as he reached into his coat pocket and procured a gold cigarette case that gleamed in Astarion’s eyes. “I was hoping to meet him in person tonight, but I’m still suffering from a horrible case of jetlag. I’d rather not ride all the way out to his estate until I’ve slept it off.” 

He popped open the case, taking out a cigarette and putting it to his lips. Glancing at Astarion again, he decided to offer one to him as well before putting them away. He retrieved a matching lighter and lit the end of the cigarette dangling from his own mouth, struggling at first to get the flame started. After taking a long drag, Sebastian held the lit cigarette between his fingers and exhaled slowly, rubbing his worried brow with his thumb while shaking his head stressfully. It must have been a long night. He didn’t even remember that he hadn’t lit Astarion’s cigarette before giving it to the man, yet Astarion placed it in his mouth regardless.

“I take it you’re renting a hotel suite nearby?” Astarion asked, cigarette twitching between his lips.

“I am.” Sebastian hadn’t looked up, lost in thought staring at the floor.

“This may be bold of me to ask, but would you care if I joined you? You seem like you could use a bit of company tonight.”

That drew the Frenchman’s attention. His brows were no longer lifted in worry, but intrigue. Even more so when Astarion bent forward, touching the tips of their cigarettes together to ignite his own, grinning at the prince seductively.

Astarion wasn’t anyone of _particularly_ great standing, but he was a fellow Ventrue… No one would even know where they’d gone for the rest of the night, would they? Aside from Prince LaCroix’s personal bodyguard, of course, but the man knew how to keep his distance until his services were actually needed and had powers strong enough to arrive when that time came.

Yes, this might be the pleasant distraction that both of them needed.

* * *

Chanson music that had to be from Astarion’s generation or perhaps a little before that time (not that he recognized any of the songs from his youth; he was a London boy himself) played softly from the radio in the hotel suite as Sebastian and Astarion slow danced together to the current tune. Astarion’s knowledge of the French language was shaky, but he picked up enough of the lyrics to understand that despite its gentle beauty, it was a somber song about an innocent woman falling in love with the wrong man and being slain by his hand before their wedding day. Something about that struck him on a personal level.

Astarion shivered at the enticing smell of the cologne that the more seasoned Ventrue was wearing. The longer he held onto his dancing partner, the more he wanted to meld into LaCroix, perhaps with some hidden desire to get away from this city that even he wasn’t aware of on a conscious level. 

LaCroix had confided in him that he was from the same time period as Cazador and once served in Napoleon Bonaparte’s military. He was turned into a vampire at the age of twenty-one by a Belgian noble, and things had never been the same since. When Astarion saw the man’s face, he assumed that he had to have been Embraced in the last couple of decades, but once again, Astarion was falling for someone many years his senior.

Was it experience that attracted him to certain individuals, or was it their power, he wondered? Was LaCroix genuinely interested in him, or was he aware of this weakness and seizing advantage? Was even Astarion as attracted to this man as he believed, or was it something else that compelled him to take on yet another secret lover? Bitterness over Cazador’s waning attentiveness? Simple boredom brought on by complacency in unlife? Or was it a desire to fill a yet empty void in the pit of his soul? He didn’t know. It could have been any of those things. All of them at once, even.

Sebastian had paused in leading their dancing and was now unbuttoning Astarion’s blood-stained doublet, kissing at the flesh on his neck and trailing down to his collarbone as more of the pale skin was exposed to the cool night air. He was considerably shorter than Astarion, but that fact was easy to forget with how assertive he could be, even when standing on his toes just to reach his taller paramour.

“I wish I had someone like you at my side when I served in the military.” Sebastian shuddered as he petted Astarion’s exposed chest and abdomen, excited by the muscular physique. “The nights would’ve been less lonely, I imagine, laying next to such perfection.”

The praise alone energized Astarion, and he tightened his muscles with pride, showing them off more by flexing them. It stirred an aroused hum in the prince’s throat as both hands traveled up and down his skin until they finally wrapped around his waist.

“I need you, sheriff,” LaCroix pleaded in a husky voice, pushing Astarion towards the luxury California king-sized bed and thrusting him onto it. Zealously, he stripped himself of the shirt he wore underneath his suit jacket and coat—both of which he hung over the back of a chair earlier when they’d arrived at the suite. “Give yourself to me.”

Astarion sank his less sharpened teeth into his lip excitedly and splayed his fingers out across his spreading thighs, trying to make himself more enticing to the prince. It clearly worked, LaCroix’s eyes had taken on a hunger that was different from the lust for blood that their kind were constantly plagued by, and he was removing his clothing faster. Astarion, meanwhile, took things slow. He unbuttoned his beige trousers slowly and methodically, occasionally hesitating to rub the growing length in his own pants. 

The movement drew Sebastian’s attention, and he licked his lips at the sight of the impressive bulge. LaCroix was normally the sort of man made insecure to be the first and only one totally naked in a situation like this, but he was compelled to dip his head down and bury his face into the cream-colored cloth before Astarion could finish his task, taking in the musky scent and kissing fervently at the sheriff’s hard groin. His mouth was leaving a dark spot from all the caressing his lips were doing, but Astarion enjoyed it, pressing into the prince’s face. That was exactly what Sebastian wanted, and he squeezed his lover’s thighs firmly with desire to encourage the behavior.

Soon, Astarion’s pants and undergarments were tugged off in a swift motion, discarded into a pile on the carpeted floor along with Sebastian’s clothing, and the shaft of his phallus was taken into the prince’s mouth, swallowed with an eagerness that made Astarion suppress an amused chuckle. Somehow, he thought that someone as refined and conservative as LaCroix was would be more prudish in the bedroom, but in reality, he was a greedy little slut, apparently. That was usually the case with his type, wasn’t it? Astarion preferred it that way; he would have been disappointed otherwise.

Astarion rewarded his pleasurable administrations by petting the man’s blonde locks, being subtle as he aided with controlling the bobbing of the prince’s head. Sebastian was quite good at this; he must have been very experienced in this particular skill. What he couldn’t take into his mouth, LaCroix pumped with his hand curled around the base of the shaft.

“Mm, as much as I’m enjoying this, if you keep at it, I’ll be spent in your mouth before you know it, dear prince,” Astarion warned with a roll of his hips. “I’d like to give you a ride first if you’d like. _Would_ you like that?”

Sebastian brought his head up from between Astarion’s thighs with a wet pop as the cock left his mouth. He dabbed his lips with the back of his hand, looking slightly bashful. “Y-Yes, I would,” he muttered, unable to make eye-contact for a change. “O-One moment, don’t go anywhere.”

He got up and disappeared into the bathroom, then returned with a bottle of lubricant that he fumbled with awkwardly in his hands, unsure of how to proceed. The prince swallowed hard as he stood at the foot of the bed, peering down at the container. He was cute when he was nervous, Astarion thought.

“Could…Could _you_ , ah… Help me with applying this?” Sebastian asked meekly. He must have been ashamed to be a bottom, but Astarion remembered that he came from a different time when that had a different connotation than it did today. Back then, a man who was a top was the “real man”, while the one on bottom… Well, it was hardly a fair assessment. Astarion was confident in his own manhood whenever he played the role of the power bottom himself, and those who doubted that simply had yet to be enlightened. But he could understand Sebastian’s insecurity, and wished to dispel him of it.

“Of course, darling,” Astarion replied, beckoning him into his lap with a curled finger. “There’s no need to be shy, my dear; I’ll tend to you.”

That brought a smile to LaCroix’s face, easing some of his tension. He straddled Astarion’s open thighs and tried to relax when he passed the bottle over, helping spread his cheeks as the younger Ventrue’s fingers were coated and slipped into his backside. He gasped at the cold sensation, clenching the two fingers that were in him, but Astarion’s gentle shushing calmed him back down. It also helped that the sheriff’s other slickened hand was stroking his manhood to take his mind off the slight discomfort.

“Thank you for this,” Sebastian murmured, fluttering his pale blue eyes shut and moving his hips back and forth at the attention he was being given on both sides of his lower half, unable to decide on which he enjoyed more. “You have _no_ idea how difficult it is to find a partner who won’t _judge_.”

Astarion smiled. “Don’t I?”

LaCroix opened his eyes again, gazing down at the man below him with surprise. He was so used to conditions for men who loved men being worse in his own time that he’d forgotten that, while there had been vast strides in progress, things were still hardly perfect. “Hm…I still have _envy_ for your generation, nevertheless.” He leaned down to kiss Astarion on the lips, and the favor was returned.

With their bodies brought closer together, Astarion removed the fingers from the prince’s backside to lubricate himself prior to penetrating him with his cock. Sebastian cried out in bliss, gnashing his teeth and hiding his face in the crook of Astarion’s neck as he thrust his hips downward to push his lover in deeper, wanting more right away. The sensation of having the sheriff’s lengthy manhood buried inside of him made his own erection throb harder with want in Astarion’s grasping palm.

What a night! The minutes drifted away in a matter of seconds as they lost themselves to their shared pleasures.

“Drink from me,” LaCroix breathed into his paramour’s ear after a while. “Go on, I give you my consent. Just don’t be too greedy.”

It was risky to drink from another Kindred in many ways, but the concept of vampires feeding on each other during sex was a common occurrence because of the heightened ecstasy that it brought. There was no harm in a _single_ sip of vitae. The real problem lay in future consumption of the same Kindred’s blood. Once was fine, but most didn’t stop there. They’d take another, and then another. Then, they’d be trapped in a blood bond with that Kindred, utterly soul-bound and devoted to them forever. 

Some Kindred formed these bonds purposely to instill trust. Others did so for more nefarious reasons to control their blood-bonded companion. Blood bonds were only made mutual if both parties drank of each other’s vitae a handful of times but were one way if only one drank of the other’s. Some Kindred fell into these bonds more easily than their peers with fewer drinks.

Astarion, feeling confident in his ability to resist further temptation, sank his fangs into the prince’s neck, draining slowly to savor the taste of his rich blue blood. LaCroix’s characteristics didn’t match his feeding preference, however, the only way a Ventrue could subvert the specific needs of their pallet was if the one whom they were feeding from was a fellow Kindred.

Sebastian’s taste was exquisite and fulfilling, and the experience was more ecstatic for both men than the sex itself, though their lovemaking was an added bonus to the act. A few more drops of blood were taken by the younger Ventrue, and LaCroix was pushed over the edge, spasming his orgasm with unsteady bucks of his hips as he slammed down into Astarion’s pelvis. Astarion, too, rolled his eyes into the back of his head as his own ejaculate filled the prince, and his hands gripped the sheets tightly. LaCroix seized him by the curls of the fair hair on his head, wrenching him away from his neck and crushing their lips together, kissing the other Kindred ardently and reveling in the taste of his own blood on his tongue.

Cazador had never loved Astarion like this in their time together. Then again, he wasn’t sure that LaCroix truly had, either. It was a troubling and conflicting thought to have and the worst time to dwell on it, but once they laid next to each other on the bed, exhausted when they came down from their impassioned high, Astarion’s mind wandered further and further from the rented hotel suite he found himself in.

Unlife had taken him to very strange places in such a short period of time. Would it always be such a charmed existence? What was going to happen when Prince LaCroix returned to LA, leaving him behind with Cazador once more? Would he find another lover to preoccupy his idle hours with when his old flame was busy with other, apparently more important matters?

Even with the French prince curled up next to him, peacefully sleeping, Astarion felt like the loneliest man in the world.

* * *

A gentle knock on his casket had awoken Astarion the next evening. Strangely, the first thought on his mind was that he hadn’t seen LaCroix since late 2004. The letters stopped coming, as did the phone calls. It was like the man had died, permanently. Or maybe he just never cared at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The starry sky and the crescent moon shone, white and fatal, on the small cross of the basilica."
> 
> Recommended Listening: Rue Saint-Vincent by Yves Montand


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry it took me a while to get this one out! Right now, the reason my uploads aren't as frequent as usual is due to IRL complications and the holiday seasons keeping my schedule booked, but things should hopefully return back to normal next month.)

Another ghoul was hardly who Astarion cared to see waking him from his slumber, but that was a usual afternoon. He might have hated Cazador’s army of ghouls more than his Tremere lackeys. Years ago, there were only a handful of them, but now, even after culling out the weaker ones, the numbers had multiplied exponentially. Yet as their ranks grew, Astarion saw fewer coming to the manor to collect their monthly sip of Cazador’s vitae to maintain their ties to his master and their small taste of vampiric power. How could that be? Was this just some kind of Kine cult now? Did they view Cazador as a god to keep appeased?

In all fairness, there were some _Kindred_ who behaved that way with his sire. Cazador wasn’t always so temperamental; that was a recent development that unfolded over the past twenty years, give or take. He was cunning and had a fiery personality since the day Astarion met him, yes, but now he was unraveling at the seams. No longer did Astarion recognize the man he fell in love with and came to admire. He’d seemingly been replaced with a monster in the shape of whomever Cazador Szarr might have once been.

He missed the old Cazador but had come to accept that he was never coming back. If only he knew who to blame. Cazador? Morgana? The Primogens of the other clans who let him down? The Camarilla who abandoned him when he needed help running this troubled fledgling Kindred city? Did Astarion do this to him? Was it, like the Beast within all Kindred, something that laid in wait since the beginning?

It didn’t matter, he supposed. Kine ghouls and unchecked Tremere were the face of Cazador’s reign now, while Cazador himself hid in his manor, writing poetry and creating morbid art for no one these nights, a broken man with a broken mind. What a sad state of affairs. They had so many dreams they were striving to achieve not so long ago.

One night, things were going to get better. Astarion had to believe in that.

“Sorry to disturb you from your sleep, sir, but this week’s prisoners are ready for questioning, if you’d like to get started before their upcoming trial a few nights from now,” said the ghoul, bowing humbly for the second time since she awakened him.

Astarion was reminded so much of a thin-blooded woman he’d slaughtered when he saw the ghoul’s face. The thin-blood held her younger brother’s head in her hands while her lover huddled behind her, both of them dazed and confused the moment that Astarion swung the axe at their tender necks and ended their brief lives. This wasn’t her, but she might have been another relative. He didn’t have the courage to ask. 

Sometimes it seemed that Cazador would take on ghouls that disturbed Astarion the most in one way or another. Maybe it was just coincidence since it was impossible for Astarion to escape his increasingly guilty conscience with each passing year. Being a vampire for this long should have dulled his empathy, but after creating his first childe, something long forgotten was reawakened within his wounded soul. 

He remembered what it was like to be human again.

Stepping out of the coffin one leg at a time, Astarion brushed past the ghoul after accepting the paperwork she offered him with a lowered head. He would conduct his business at the condemned courthouse that secretly (it was a secret to Kine, anyway) served as his place of work.

But before he could leave the foyer of the Szarr estate, Astarion’s mind wandered to his childe that suffered in the cellar alone. He should visit him first, if he could, as arduously painful of a task that was.

Going down the stairs into the cellar, Astarion unlocked the door to Elganon’s cell and cracked it open. It was lit by dim candlelight and his childe was looming over the worktable that was placed in there. Scattered across the long table were various alchemical supplies—bottles, reagents, a burner, and several other tools—and at the back of it propped up in the center was an open book covered in bloodstains. Astarion vaguely remembered confiscating an alchemy book from one of the thin-bloods he executed. 

The thin-blood managed to survive undetected in this city for longer than most did, alone, and had used the recipes contained in this enigmatic book in order to do so. But like all thin-bloods up until now, the inevitable end came all the same, and now the book had found its way into the hands of their Tremere scholars.

Unfortunately, the Tremere discovered that they could not utilize the tome’s secrets nor understand them fully without a thin-blood to serve as the test subject. As luck would have it, Elganon became their first, and Cazador swiftly put him to work on the effort to understand the riddle-like concoctions detailed within, so that, like a lab rat, Elganon could sample them in front of the Tremere whenever they came by the mansion to take notes. 

Cazador wasn’t keeping Elganon alive out of mercy, towards Elganon nor Astarion, he was doing so in an effort to understand and deal with the thin-blood problem once and for all now that it became apparent that _anyone_ in the city could potentially spread the curse—even his own childer.

What did that mean for Elganon once his labor bore fruit? After he’d served his purpose in full?

Before, Elganon spent his young life crafting drugs that would likely eventually end in the death of his customers. Now, he was crafting potions that would likely one day end his own life when his work was complete. Cazador was always a fan of bitter irony, even before his turn to madness.

“Elganon?” Astarion whispered, opening the door further to step inside. “Are you feeling alright, darling?”

Suddenly, Elganon folded his arms on the table, laid his head in them, and burst into a fit of tears he’d probably been holding in for hours now. One would think he’d be too exhausted to cry with how tired he looked, but his sire’s entrance must have made him realize he had enough energy left to do at least that.

Astarion rushed to his childe’s side, petting him on the back and offering him the chalice of blood he’d brought along with him after making a quick detour before coming down to the cellar. “Here, drink this. You’ll feel better,” he insisted. He gave Elganon some space when the fledgling snatched the cup eagerly, suspecting that he wasn’t quite feeling himself.

“This is it? _This_ is all you brought me?” Elganon said testily, squinting his eyes at the meager amount of blood sloshing in the cup held in his shaking hand.

“It was all that I could sneak from Cazador’s reserves without looking suspicious in front of the ghouls!” Astarion snapped, surprised by his childe’s lack of gratefulness.

“I’m _starving_ , Astarion!” Elganon cried, throwing his head back to swallow the entire cupful in one motion. He licked at the droplets that dribbled from the corners of his mouth, then cleaned his lips with the back of his hand, lapping that up, too. “It hurts! You have no idea how badly I _hurt_! I’m _hungry_!”

Pacing around anxiously, Elganon couldn’t go far in the room because of the chains that tethered him in place. Made furious when he felt the tug of his bondage as he reached the end of his leash, he threw the chalice against the wall, grabbed onto the chains, and started pulling on them wildly, screaming and thrashing. Astarion had never seen his childe so incensed, and he honestly didn’t think the young man had this kind of behavior in him. The Beast within every Kindred made animalistic monsters out of them all.

In between frantic cries, Elganon kept yelling, “I hurt! I hurt! I’m dying!” to no one in particular. Eventually, he gave up and huddled up on the floor with his knees brought to his chest, assuming a fetal position while shivering like one of the addicts their ghouls peddled their illicit wares to. He never knew what it was like to be addicted to anything, until now.

“Hurt. I hurt,” he murmured pathetically again, sniffling and quivering his lips.

On the first night he was brought to Cazador’s abode, the only thing on his mind was going back home again, to be with his adoptive father and uncle (once he returned from his stay in the hospital) who loved him. Now all he cared about was eating because the rats did nothing to nourish the growing void in his stomach. The last time Astarion had come to check in on him, Elganon swallowed an entire rat whole. He used to cry merely at the thought of harming such an innocent little animal, let alone to kill it, but now even he was having trouble resisting the instinct to see everything that was filled with vitae as food. Astarion pretended not to catch him in the act, but Elganon saw him come in at that exact moment, and he couldn’t look his sire in the eyes the entire time they were together.

None of this was what Astarion promised him when he gave to Elganon the “gift” of immortality, and for that, the Ventrue felt just as bad as his childe did.

Elganon was shuddering more violently, curling up tighter into himself and his teeth chattered loudly. Sometimes it seemed like when he finally got another taste of blood, it only made his hunger pains worse. He just wanted it all to go away. The hunger, the suffering, everything. Every waking moment was a living nightmare for him, while Astarion got to go to fancy parties, where blood would be served; have dinner upstairs with his own sire, where blood would be served; and walk the streets freely at night, where everywhere you went, there was a fresh source of blood with legs just ambling about, totally unaware of how delicious it was.

Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

That’s all that he could think about anymore.

“Just stay put, darling. I’ll try to get you some more to drink,” Astarion instructed before dashing out of the room, careful not to drop the papers stuffed underneath his arm.

Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

He _could_ sample from the small variety of vitae the Tremere had brought him to use in his elixirs, but the first time he tried that, Cazador found out and beat him senseless. If he was caught doing it again, he was told he’d be flayed. Besides, he figured that the only way he could sate his hunger enough to make the pain go away was if he drank _all_ of the tiny vials of blood. Each one had some characteristic that made them unique and were mandatory reagents, so just any blood wouldn’t do. It might be too obvious if he had even a tiny sip. And if he took one sip, he knew he wouldn’t have stopped there. He’d go into a frenzy and chug it all down one after another. 

He had to hope that when the Tremere had him test the effects of the potions, his belly would be filled at least a little.

Elganon scratched at his neck, leaving tears in the skin that would heal on their own, if he could just get another fix. Another drink. Thirsty. Hungry. Food. Please.

Before Astarion could return, the Tremere had arrived to check up on his progress. There was one that he remembered: Magister Thomas, the one that helped Astarion tattoo the crescent moon into his forehead that made him feel like a freakish outcast, but also a second Tremere that he didn’t recognize.

Actually, he did.

It couldn’t have been who he thought he was. He must have been so hungry that he was hallucinating now.

He lifted his weak head, forcing his heavy eyelids to stay open. His head felt like it was about to fall right off his slender neck. “U-Uncle Tabby? Is that you? Why aren’t you in the hospital? Why is your leg not broken like Orebos said it was?”

The old man removed the hood from his head and blinked at the fledgling Kindred before him, equally baffled. “Elg? Wha—” He closed his eyes, shook his head, and looked again, thinking he might have gone crazy. “Yer one of us now, too?” 

Thomas blocked Elganon’s uncle from approaching his adoptive nephew with an outstretched arm. “Not exactly, Apprentice Tabalecus. He’s a thin-blood. When I heard you mention your nephew’s name at the chantry, I knew this had to be the same young man; I’ve never heard a name like that before anywhere else. I wanted you to know what’s become of him, so that his mysterious absence wouldn’t come as such a surprise when you noticed it.”

“He’s a thin-blood? Shit…” Tabalecus gently pushed past Thomas’ arm and helped Elganon stand, taking him over towards the alchemy table where he could hold onto the side of the table. “Never were lucky, were ya, Elg?”

“Be careful,” said Thomas. “He’s ravenous.”

“He’s family,” Tabalecus replied over his shoulder. Patting his nephew on the back, he muttered, “Hang in there, son. We’ll work somethin’ out about getting’ you outta here. Fer now, just play along, an’ show us what’cha got fer us tonight.” He pointed at the concoctions on the table.

“I want to go home,” Elganon whimpered, on the verge of tears. He held onto the sides of the table as if for dear life, shaking. “Where’s Orebos? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. Don’t worry about ‘im. Called ‘im on the phone earlier, actually. We both had it in our heads you musta been stayin’ with yer new boyfriend.” 

Tabalecus examined the room around himself again. It was little more than a tiny box with four stone brick walls. There were, of course, Elganon’s chains and the alchemy table, but other than that, some of the bricks were crumbling away, leaving crawl spaces big enough for small vermin to invade. Next to one of the holes where rats often came in was a dented chalice. Several areas of the brickwork were smeared in faint bloodstains, many of which looked as if they’d been there for years. Others were much more recent.

Elganon laughed bitterly. “I guess I am, in a way.” His uncle didn’t understand what he meant by that, but he couldn’t be blamed for not realizing who his lover was. Elganon wasn’t sure if it was wise to tell him, either.

Thomas brought out a leatherbound notebook and a fountain pen from the embroidered bag slung around his shoulder, and he flipped to a blank page to prepare himself for taking notes. “I’m afraid the family reunion will have to wait. Regent Morgana dislikes delays as much as Cazador does. Let’s get on with this. Take the first potion, and turn the book to the page you used as a recipe, thin-blood.”

“C’mon, Tom, call ‘im by ‘is name,” Tabalecus pleaded.

“Elganon,” the other Tremere corrected himself, sighing.

Uncorking a bottle, Elganon braced himself as he drank it all down. Like the blood Astarion gave him earlier, it made his hunger more apparent than anything else. Even worse, the taste made him ill. Not because he was sired by a Ventrue and this wasn’t his blood preference—that was one of the few positives about turning out this way—but because the concoction had a strange effect on his body.

“You alright, peaches? Ya don’t look so good.” Tabalecus was about to pat him on the back until Elganon shoved him away with a surprising force that his fragile body shouldn’t have been capable of.

Watching his uncle stumble over with horror, Elganon squeaked, “Sorry, uncle! I’m sorry! That was an accident. I—”

“Potency,” Thomas interrupted, scribbling down notes while Tabalecus dusted himself off and stood up with a sore groan. “Not a discipline normally found in Ventrue, so that’s definitely an effect of the alchemy. Well done. Let me see the tome.”

Tabalecus followed behind Thomas, peering over his shoulder as they both looked over the section Elganon opened the alchemy book up to. The trouble with alchemical tomes was that they read less like a cookbook and more like a book of riddles. Luckily, puzzles were Thomas’ specialty, and he managed to decipher a small portion of the pages so far.

“It’s a shame that you aren’t Tremere like us,” Thomas mentioned as he updated an older page in his notebook. “We could use more alchemists in the chantry.”

“What’s a chantry?” Elganon asked, fidgeting, and scratching his arms, trying to ignore his hunger pains.

“It’s a haven for members of our clan,” the magister explained, narrowing his eyes and leaning closer to read some of the smaller print on the open book. “We have our libraries there, laboratories, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds like a university almost,” said the fledgling.

“Something like that.”

Tabalecus grinned at Thomas and suggested, “Why don’t we see if we could bring Elg in anyway? I mean, it ain’t just Tremere there, after all.”

Thomas chuckled, though his expression faded to a grim one shortly after. “It _could_ be possible to bring him in as a servant, but I highly doubt Cazador would be interested in giving up his prisoner anytime soon… Tabalecus, it’s best that you stay out of this. We’ll arrange better conditions for your nephew soon enough, but don’t be too hasty. It’s not wise to start barking demands at a Kindred prince, especially for neonates such as yourself.”

“But Tom—”

“He’s right,” Elganon admitted dolefully. “Don’t put yourself in danger on my account, Uncle Tabby. But do tell Orebos that I said hello, the next time you talk to him.” He wanted to add that he should mention that he was being held against his will in somebody’s basement, but that probably wouldn’t have gone over well.

“Show us the next elixir,” Thomas instructed, bringing them back to the task at hand.

The experiments proceeded, and most of the other potions turned out to be duds. One of them even made Elganon retch it back up, along with the little blood he’d gotten into his system that night. In the end, he was left feeling sicker, hungrier, and dizzier. Astarion’s return with a bottle of preserved blood in hand couldn’t have come at a better time.

“Ah, I didn’t think the Tremere were still here,” said Astarion after flinging open the door and being surprised to see that Elganon wasn’t alone.

He was about to awkwardly attempt to hide the bottle behind his back, until Thomas said something about it. “See, Tabalecus? Cazador’s sent his sheriff with something to drink for your nephew. The prince is a bit addled these days, but he’s still got some humanity.”

Magister Thomas smiled and nodded with satisfaction to himself. Perhaps it was he who needed proof that Cazador still had a sensible head on his shoulders more than Tabalecus or Elganon. If only the Tremere’s assumptions were actually the case. 

“Yes, of course,” Astarion lied between painfully clenched teeth, closing the cell door behind himself as he delivered the bottle to his childe after opening it. “Here you are, darling. This should be more than enough.”

Elganon tore the bottle from his sire’s hands and gulped the vitae inside down vigorously. It was amazing how warm it was from the bottle, like it had just been poured from a mortal’s veins. The taste wasn’t identical, but it was as close as it got. Once he was finished, he carelessly dropped the bottle to the floor, allowing it to shatter while he scooped the trails of blood running down his bottom lip and neck from when he’d chugged the whole thing down, licking the blood from his fingers. He was always a ridiculously messy and clumsy eater when he was this hungry.

Only Astarion cared to notice what was inside the fragments of the bottle that laid scattered upon the ground. At the center of it all was a shriveled beating heart, loosely connected by arteries to shards of the bottle that were lined with living flesh. 

He was shocked; he’d never seen these details in the bottles, not even when they were totally emptied of their contents. It must have all been previously obscured from sight by a type of glamour spell. Astarion never _was_ learned in the Auspex discipline since it wasn’t typical of his clan, but now he almost wished he were to find out what else the Tremere hid from plain sight in this city.

“This is Tzimisce magic,” Astarion spat, pointing at the grotesque pieces on the ground as the life faded from the pulsating organs.

“Indeed, it is,” said Thomas casually, turning to acknowledge the mess, and poked at the heart with his foot. “We haven’t got it all worked out quite yet, but your sire allows us to practice Vicissitude freely. We’ll get it sorted soon enough, and you’ll have power beyond your imagining.”

“You know that I’ve ruled Vicissitude to be a violation of the Masquerade in our city!”

“Most of what we do violates the Masquerade in some form or another, sheriff,” the magister replied languidly.

The discussion intrigued Elganon now that the vitae he’d drank was settling and bringing him back to sanity. He’d never heard of this Kindred discipline. “What’s Vicissitude?”

“It’s the—” Astarion could barely bring himself to speak of it. The thought alone made his gut churn. “There is an ancient clan of Kindred called the Tzimisce who created the… “art”. It allows a Kindred to reshape flesh and bone, twist it to their will, as if creating a sculpture. It could possibly be used for good, but that’s almost never the case. Instead, you get horrific, disgusting abominations such as…” He gestured to the broken bottle’s contents again, stepping away from it now. “That.”

“Oh, come off it, Astarion,” Thomas cut in. “You had no trouble drinking from those reserves like a proper bagger until you knew what was in them.”

Tabalecus laughed. “Where I’m from, we have the sayin’: “Don’t ask how the sausage is made.” Blood’s blood, son. I know yer Ventrue an’ all, an’ it’s hard to adjust, but take it where ya can get it an’ be happy.”

“Uncle Tabby does have a point,” said Elganon, causing Astarion to frown disappointedly. “It’s strange and morbid, yes, but I mean, this all is, when you think about it, innit? Er… Isn’t it?”

“Upholding the Masquerade isn’t only about hiding our nature from the Kine, Elganon,” Astarion explained. “It’s for our sakes on a personal level as well. Without retaining some level of humanity, we’ll all become wights. Do you know what wight is, darling?” 

He saw that Elganon had one of his chains wrapped painfully around his ankle and went to adjust it. While he was at it, he checked to make sure that the bindings weren’t too tight. It was the least he could do since he didn’t have the authority to free him.

Elganon moved carefully around the chains, allowing Astarion to fix them for him. That did feel a little better against his skin; he was getting very sore. He shook his head innocently at the question when their eyes met again.

“A wight is what happens to you when you lose all humanity. It’s more or less when the Beast inside of you takes full control, and never gives it back to you ever again. It’s permanent, so if you become one, you’re lost forever. You can rebuild your sense of humanity before that point, of course, but once you hit rock bottom, there’s no coming back,” said Astarion.

Once he was done loosening the chains somewhat, he straightened Elganon’s messy hair and ragged, dirty attire. The poor thing really needed a bath soon, and he hoped that Cazador would permit it if he asked to give his childe one. 

“Wights are wild animals that live only to rip out the throats of anything and everything that moves,” he continued. “Animal, Kine, Kindred, friend, foe—it doesn’t matter. If blood pumps within it, it’s food to the wight.”

It worried Elganon to know that he was already beginning to think that way about anything with blood inside of it.

“And those who practice Vicissitude often become wights?” he guessed.

Thomas scoffed, holding up an upturned palm with his pen held between two fingers. “Hardly. The Tzimisce may be our immortal enemies—”

“To be honest, Tom, I think everybody hates the Tremere,” Tabalecus said.

“Be that as it may,” Thomas relented, “the Tzimisce _know_ what they’re doing. Their clan is among the most horrific in nature, and yet they survive without turning into wights just fine, on average. They manage better than some of the common Camarilla-aligned clans do. Don’t discredit their ways _entirely_ when they yield undeniable results.”

Astarion sighed, putting his hands on his hips. “You may be right,” he confessed. “But utilizing _caution_ is still important as well. That’s my main problem with you Tremere. There’s nothing _wrong_ with craving a little power—we all want it—but your lot are a little too…eager.”

“No offense, Ventrue, but _real_ progress is not made by sitting around in hours-long board meetings or attending networking seminars.”

Clearly Astarion _was_ offended by the magister’s comment if his pursed lips were anything to go by. “I’m sure that’s why it’s _my_ clan that leads most of the Kindred world, and not your own.”

“Only in an _official_ capacity are things that way,” was the witty remark spoken with narrowed eyelids.

Tabalecus nudged his companion to put a stop to all the bickering. “Hon, I think we oughta get back to the chantry, if we’re done takin’ notes here.” 

He looked over at Elganon and nodded his head. “Sit tight, alright, son? This’ll all get sorted out, an’ you won’t be down here for much longer. I still don’t get why things’ve gotta be this way, but the Kindred world is full of some weird shit. We just gotta take it one night at a time, like always, huh?”

Elganon’s chains rattled as he dragged them along to get close enough to hug his uncle. “Before you go, are you at least going to explain how you ended up a vampire? It seems as if my entire life’s been turned upside down very suddenly, and I don’t even know what’s going on anymore.”

His uncle frowned as he held him tightly. “I’ll tell ya another time, but the longer yer exposed to…all of this, you’ll realize real quick that none of this is sudden. It’s always been goin’ on all around us, but most of us never noticed much back when we were Kine. You’ll figure it out. Just give it time.”

“I hope that I _have_ time,” Elganon sighed, worrying for a future he wasn’t positive that he had. He let go of Tabalecus reluctantly, knowing that clinging to him wouldn’t result in being taken away from this place, as much as he would have liked that.

“You know that I’ll look after you,” Astarion told him confidently.

Thomas smirked in a sardonic way. “Knowing your history with thin-bloods, sheriff, I’m not sure that this poor fledgling _needs_ someone like you looking after him.”

“Shut up,” Astarion hissed at the Tremere. “Leave us, both of you. You’ve got your precious little research, now go.” He pointed at the door adamantly. 

Though he didn’t need to try and enforce his dominating will over the Tremere (not that it was affecting the magister much, anyway) since they decided to leave on their own accord, the flustered sheriff did so, despite it being a violation of domain laws under the Masquerade.

Cazador’s home was meant to be an Elysium, a place where fellow Kindred shouldn’t have been permitted to fall under harm or use their vampiric powers, but obviously both Cazador and his sheriff were of the same mind that, when it pertained to their own desires, some rules were meant to be broken. And so long as the rest of the Camarilla didn’t know, why not?

“What’s his problem?” Tabalecus mumbled to Thomas on the way out.

“I’ll tell you on the way back to the chantry,” the magister murmured in return. “He’s got a troubled history, that one. Be wary of him.”

Astarion snarled, but he didn’t let on that he’d overheard that part of their conversation, instead bringing his attention back to his charge once they were left alone again. “I’ll see if I can bring a warm bucket of water, a few cloths, and a fresh change of clothing for you, dearest. You’re a mess.”

Elganon scowled slightly, ashamed by this obvious fact. “ _I know_.”

The sire kissed his childe on the crescent moon mark tattooed into his forehead, rubbing his shoulder with a firm hand. “I’m truly sorry for all of this. I’m working on fixing this mess that I’ve made. I really am. Please be patient for a little while longer.”

Breaking down, Elganon clung to his lover’s chest, weeping tormentedly. “I want to go home,” he sobbed.

But more importantly, he was _still_ hungry. Would the yearning ever stop? Could it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And so I cry sometimes when I'm lying in bed, just to get it all out-what's in my head-and I...I am feeling a little peculiar."
> 
> Recommended Listening: What's Up? by 4 Non Blondes


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it took so long to get in another chapter update, but I hope everyone enjoys it!

Cazador’s finger touched the spine of multiple books on the shelves in his study. All books on the rows he examined were collections of poetry that contained at least one, if not more, of his own writings. Many authors would be envious of his notoriety, but unfortunately, his name had gone missing—more and more—from many tongues appreciative of the arts with each generation that passed him by. When was it, exactly, that he became so obscure?

He blamed many things for the reason why he’d fallen from grace as an artist. His work consumed so much of his time these nights, especially after becoming a prince, and no amount of delegation kept him totally free of disruptions. Not to mention that fewer and fewer people read poetry or literature as time went on, and rants were what was most desired now. 

He could easily jump onto the bandwagon himself, as he had much to complain about, but the whole purpose of his work was to find peace from the thoughts and memories that plagued him. After all, his raging against Astarion, who somehow pressed his buttons more than anyone or anything else did, never made him feel any better. He could lash his childe to the brink of oblivion, but by the end of it, all he could do was brood in lingering frustration.

Every night, Cazador was brought further and further away from the things that made him happy in life. The clock ticked onward, another little sliver of himself was lost, and whenever he looked up from the world inside his mind, he saw fewer familiar faces. Everyone he knew or cared about had been replaced by someone he resented, either because they had changed significantly or died. The world became a bitter and hollow place, and yet, there were still a few things left that were worth enduring for.

“Father! It’s good to see you again!”

Cazador turned on the heel of his well-polished shoe at the sound of his daughter’s voice. She was unfortunately not his childe, but she would still always be his child. His daughter was a Toreador, sired by the clan’s current Primogen of his city centuries ago.

“Violeta!” The prince held out his arms, beckoning the eternally young woman to him.

With a mirthful giggle from her red-painted lips, she lifted the hem of her long, beautiful dress to her ankles to keep from tripping as she ran forward to hug her loving father. “Forgive me for being gone so long, Father. You know how Mr. Goodnight is; he simply wilts without his muse around to inspire his playwriting.” She kissed Cazador on the cheek.

“I understand, my dear. I fully understand,” her father replied as he placed his hands on her shoulders, admiring how elegant she was in the new gown the Toreador Primogen no doubt bought for her. He never cared for Jonas Goodnight, but so long as he did right by Violeta, that was all that mattered to him.

Cazador may not have been very happy himself these nights, nor was he as well-known by the Kine for his talents as he used to be, but it brought him some joy to see that his daughter had finally been making more of a name for herself. It was showing in the prouder way she carried herself now. She was no longer the petulant young adult he remembered her to be in the past. If only Astarion would mature as she did, he thought.

Violeta flipped open her silk fan and waved it across her face ostentatiously. “I’m his prima donna from now on. I cannot _wait_ for you to see the new opera, once it’s complete. You’re going to _love_ it! I’ve been practicing all season!”

Her smile suddenly faded when she noticed something was amiss about the environment. She slid her fan shut again and looked around, then back at her father. “Where’s Astarion?” she asked, all the delight absent from her tone.

“Gone to the courthouse, I imagine,” said Cazador with an equally humorless expression. His most infamous childe’s name had a way of draining the life from a room more than _any_ Kindred could.

She pursed her lips irritably. “Hm… I think I shall pay him a visit, then.”

“I’d rather you not, my dear.”

“Oh, but Father, I simply _must_. It’s been _ages_ since I’ve seen your precious little childe. Is he still the sheriff, or has he gotten himself demoted with his antics?”

Cazador hesitated to answer at first. “…Yes, he is still my sheriff.”

“That’s a shame. You could really do better. I don’t see why you give him such clemency. He hardly deserves it.”

“Whomever I appoint to what position is hardly any of your concern, daughter.” Cazador was always more patient with Violeta than he was with anyone else, but even that had its limits. The growing annoyance in his voice was warning enough for her to stop pressing the matter.

She sighed. “You _do_ love him, don’t you?”

“Enough. I won’t hear any more of this, nor your idle speculation.”

Violeta never could take her father as seriously as his underlings might when he clenched his jaw in that awkward way while he was fuming. Truly, the only thing that made Cazador so intimidating was his power and the ways in which he decided to utilize it. 

In terms of appearances and personality, Violeta saw her father as a silly man, in an endearing way. Even his voice, which sounded more appropriate for a doting elder than an iron-fisted monarch, lowered her guard rather than raised it.

It was amusing to her to think how afraid other Kindred were of this man. But then again, he was her father. Obviously, she would see a side of him that no one else would.

“I’m going to go visit Astarion.” It was Violeta’s final decision, and she would leave no room for further argument. “I shan’t be gone long,” she promised.

“Violeta…” Though disappointed, Cazador did nothing else to try to dissuade her. 

It was easier for her to get her way when he hadn’t seen her face-to-face in a while. She knew he wanted her to be happy, and she never hesitated to exploit that when she needed to. 

“Be cautious of Astarion,” Cazador continued. “He grows bolder and more delinquent by the night. He may have gotten the idea into his head that he can usurp my will, and I wonder about his loyalties to me.”

Violeta smiled, finding amusement in her father’s well-intended warning. “I wouldn’t say that he’s _ever_ been loyal. Cowed, perhaps, but loyal? I don’t believe Astarion could be devoted to _anyone_ , other than himself.”

“Nevertheless,” Cazador said, folding his hands, “he once served me well.”

Violeta frowned with a flash of bitterness in her eyes. “We’ve _never_ needed him.”

“Don’t be so proud, daughter. Even a king needs agents to help him rule his kingdom.”

“He was more of a concubine than an agent, I would say,” Violeta muttered.

“Return when your mood is less foul,” Cazador growled, pointing towards the door. “You need not understand _why_ I’ve decided to make him the agent of my will, but you shall respect my decisions. And I won’t have you burdening me with your misguided jealousy over where my attentions lie. I have enough to worry about without you adding to my stressors.”

Violeta conceded with a curtsey and a bow of her head. “Of course, Father. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Cazador’s nose wrinkled. “You _always_ mean to upset me,” he said. “You _both_ do, and it vexes me. Now, if you must go to him, leave now before I change my mind. You’ve been terribly rude to your father.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize when you don’t mean it.”

Cazador was always so melodramatic. Like father, like daughter.

Still, knowing how quickly and frequently he could go back on a decision, Violeta left her father alone in his study, where he could brood over times passed, and she made her way to the stairs in the main hall. Along the path, she encountered another one of Cazador’s childer—a young man with a handsome face.

Violeta believed that Cazador created childer purely for the sake of keeping certain individuals around as pretty baubles, moving statues that would never crack thanks to the supernatural powers that preserved them. It was a display of influence and wealth, and Astarion was supposed to be no different than the rest of them, yet he was, and that infuriated her. 

She didn’t like to think that anyone might possibly have a stronger influence on her father than she did. Astarion was a meddler in her eyes; when her mother died, it was supposed to be only her and her father against the world, especially after they both became vampires, one after the other. Then, Astarion came along and got in the way of that.

“Violeta,” the man greeted her, his vocal cords tensed with unease. “I didn’t realize you’d come home. Will you be staying long?” The look on his face said that he hoped not, but he bowed to appease her.

“I may,” she said, as if her verdict depended on how much that might upset the people in the household.

“I see.” The man fought with his desire to grimace. “A-Anyway, it’s been good seeing you again, but I need to get down to the cellar.”

“The rat problem is normally handled by one of Father’s ghouls, isn’t it? You must have done something to anger him,” she assumed, perplexed as to why he’d be going down there.

“Ah, no. Nothing like that.” He allowed himself to chuckle, relieving some of his nervousness. “It’s that thin-blood he’s got down there.”

“Thin-blood?”

Now the childe was mortified. “He…didn’t tell you?”

“No…” Violeta’s curiosity was peaked. She held out her hand, expecting the youth to be a gentleman and offer his arm, which he had. “Take me to it.”

“Him,” the man said. “The thin-blood is male, probably around my age when I was turned.” He walked her carefully down the stairs, being mindful of the long and elaborate hem of her dress. The last thing he wanted was for her to be injured on his watch because Cazador wouldn’t spare him his ire in the slightest if that happened.

“My father created a _thin-blood?_ ” she assumed, aghast by the notion.

“Not your father. Astarion, I’m told. It figures that it’d be him.”

“ _Astarion?_ ”

Violeta couldn’t have been more delighted when he nodded in affirmation.

“And what’s Astarion’s relationship with this thin-blood?” she asked.

“I could be wrong here, but I’m led to believe that they’re probably lovers or something like that.”

“Lovers, you say. Are you sure?”

“You could always ask the thin-blood yourself, Ms. Szarr. He’s skittish, but he does speak.”

* * *

Elganon’s eyes darted in the direction of the cellar room door when it opened, and he scrambled to his feet, trying to seem as alert as possible. 

A beautiful young woman in a lovely dress and long black hair that was pinned up in a bun—with some strands left loose to frame her pretty face—strode in. She was someone he didn’t recognize, but he noticed that she strongly resembled Cazador.

Elganon backed into his alchemy table when she came near, the sound of her high heels clicking in his ears with each leisurely step she took towards him. Reaching behind himself, he took one of the potion bottles from the table and slipped it into his back pocket.

“Are you with the Tremere?” He swallowed, intimidated by her taller stature and her analytical gaze. “I’m not finished with the assignment. If you could…if you would just come back a few hours from now, I’ll be—”

“Tremere. Hah! Do I look Tremere to you? I should hope not.” She poked the crescent moon marking on his forehead with her folded fan, and grinned with amusement at how he winced with every tap. “Aren’t you a precious thing? With a face like a little kewpie doll. How adorable you are. What’s your name, little boy?”

He sulked at her teasing, raising his hands in front of his face to guard it against further prodding. “My name’s Elganon, but I’m twenty—"

“Elganon,” she interrupted while reaching for his chains. “How would you like to go for a walk? You look so sickly cooped up in here.”

He tried to resist, knowing that leaving the cell would incur the wrath of Cazador if he found out, but he was in too weak of a state to fight her off as she picked the locks using a bobby pin from her hair.

“I have to stay here,” he said. “Please. I don’t want Astarion to get into any more trouble.”

“It’s okay, my dear,” she cooed, shushing him. “In fact, I’m going to be taking you right to him!”

Admittedly, he did want to see Astarion again. Outside of this horrible place. “Is Cazador alright with that?”

“Of course. I’m his daughter. He lets me do whatever I wish.”

Elganon didn’t believe her for a moment, but something about her presence made him quickly grow to enjoy being around her and have her attention. Wherever she was taking him, he would go along willingly.

* * *

Visiting with the prisoners of the city’s Kindred underground world was as miserable an experience as ever. When Astarion interrogated each of them while they were all huddled together in a large cage like animals at a zoo, they wept, screamed, pleaded for mercy, and tried to grab at his ankles through the bars that trapped them. Even as he locked the door behind himself, Astarion could hear their tormented lamentations. 

He wanted to take pity on them, truly, but he had little empathy to spare anymore. Though, on many nights, such as this one, a secretive part of himself wanted to see the whole courthouse go up in flames. He’d like to see that happen to Cazador’s whole city, in fact. He was weary of all of it. The entire place was a prison of his sire’s design, and everyone within it was being held hostage. In this, those at the very bottom of society and at the very top were equal. No one was allowed to come and go from this hellhole anymore. No one.

Not even Cazador had stepped foot outside the city in years.

“There’s one more prisoner, sir,” admitted the ghoul that accompanied the sheriff, yet another flunkey of the local prince. “We’ve been keeping him separate from the others. He’s in this room here.”

The ghouled man gestured to the adjacent door, then stepped aside to let Astarion unlock it. “Oh, and don’t be alarmed by his appearance,” he added. “He’s definitely Kindred.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow, but he otherwise said nothing as he turned the key and twisted the doorknob, opening the door to a much smaller cage sitting on a table at the center of the room. He had to get up close to it before his eyes would believe that the only thing being kept within it was a large white snake. But now that he was so near the winding creature, he could see the unmistakable patterns carved into the serpent’s scales along its back: another one of Cazador’s “poems” enchanted with Tremere blood magic.

“You’re of the Gangrel clan,” Astarion reasoned as he examined the painful marks closely, knowing he couldn’t make out what they said. He was more interested in how gruesome they looked than what they said. “Can you change back into your human form? I’d rather not talk to an animal. Makes things a bit awkward.”

“Would that I could,” said the serpent, curving his head up to see the sheriff’s face, watching him just as curiously with his striking crimson eyes. “But I can’t. That’sss the purpossse of the mark on my back. It bindsss me to my animal form.”

Astarion nodded, expecting as much. “I take it that Cazador did this to you. Why?” He walked in a circle around the cage, and the snake’s head tracked his movements. 

It had been a terribly long time since Astarion saw a Gangrel—the shapeshifting beast masters of Kindred kind. He remembered there was a time when a handful of them were present, mostly around the outskirts of the city, but like some of the other clans, their numbers suspiciously diminished as Cazador’s claws sank into the city once he was appointed prince.

Astarion had begun to believe that the local Gangrel were all gone. He assumed they’d grown tired of Cazador’s ways and left while they had the chance. Now he wondered what his sire did to the rest of them.

“You don’t know who I am, do you?” said the snake.

The sheriff stood still. “No.”

“I’m the primogen of thisss cccity’sss Gangrel clan. Wasss.”

“Was?”

“Doesssn’t hold asss much weight when you’re the only one left in the whole cccity, doesss it?”

There weren’t too many things that Astarion had been kept in the dark about over the years, but he always suspected that Cazador had been slowly making efforts to sabotage the other members of what was supposed to be his trusted coterie. 

Princes, though they had the final say in all things within their domains, were expected on some level to respect and listen to the council and desires of the local leaders of each clan. But Astarion could tell that Cazador had little love for most of them. It came as no surprise that his sire would go this far to ensure that his city reflected solely the Kindred society that _he_ envisioned.

Where was the Camarilla—those above Cazador in power—to respond to all of this? This kind of meddling was a blatant disregard for Kindred tradition in upholding the Masquerade. Was no one coming to save the city from Cazador’s madness? He dwelled on that thought frequently, nearly every night now.

Astarion kept wondering when enough would be deemed enough by Cazador’s superiors—it never stopped nagging at him—but no matter how absurd things got, no agents ever arrived to sort this mess out. How relieving it would have been if Sebastian LaCroix returned, he thought. Astarion could tell him everything and have it set all straight, surely. He seemed like a reasonable man with respect for order. If only Sebastian would respond to his attempts to contact him…

Not that Astarion particularly _liked_ order. He loved a little drama, but what Cazador was doing was beyond the pale. It was far too much, and none of it was fun anymore. It wasn’t how things _used_ to be.

“Are you jussst going to ssstand there and gawk at me?” asked the snake.

“Sorry.” Astarion rubbed his face, letting this all sink in. He had definitive proof that Cazador was too corrupt to be fit to lead sitting right here in this cage, but no means of revealing it to anyone who could do anything about it. Fate was a cruel thing. “What should I call you, anyway? I assume you know who I am.”

“Oh, I know who you are; you’re the princcce’sss pet.” Even in his current form, the snake could express obvious disdain. “People call me Charming.”

“I can’t see why,” Astarion quipped.

“You’d be moody, too, if you were in my ssskin. Jussst look at what’sss become of me.” Charming curled his body into a tight coil. He did look pitiful in that tiny cage with those angry red markings scarring him. “Plusss, if I’m in here, I can only imagine that I’m ssset to be exxxecuted, aren’t I? Cazador hasss already interrogated me. He hasss everything that he wantsss. You ssspeaking to me now isss only a formality. My true death will tie up the loossse end that isss my clan’sss placcce in the cccity.”

“What was your crime?” Astarion asked.

Charming hissed a laugh. “You already know that there wasss no real crime. How many of our kind, I wonder, have you murdered on behalf of your sssire under the guissse of Kindred law? Do you even know? Are you complicccit in all thisss, or a blind fool?”

“I…” The accusations made Astarion lightheaded. The room seemed to spin. “I don’t know…”

“Do you think that you’re a good sssheriff, or do you _like_ playing gamesss with the people in this cccity? Are you like Cazador? Are we only your toysss?”

Furious, Astarion charged forward and struck the Gangrel’s cage with the back of his arm. The blow sent it rolling off the table and across the room, banging it into the wall. The door to the cage popped open, and the snake slithered out. Astarion gave chase, but by the time the Gangrel went out the room’s door and turned around the corner, Charming was nowhere to be found.

“Fuck!” Astarion shouted, his cry echoing off the vacant hallway’s walls.

The ghoul ran up to him, full of anxiety. “What’s wrong? Did something happen with the prisoner?”

“You didn’t see him escape?!” Astarion snapped, and the ghoul flinched.

“N-No, I didn’t. I’m sorry. I’m really—”

Astarion grabbed the man by the collar and shook him. “Shut up! Just shut up!” He released the man’s collar while simultaneously pushing him away. “You ghouls are all _useless_. I believe I see now why Cazador fills the city with so many of you; it takes ten of you to complete a simple task! Idiots, all of you!”

The ghoul wrung his hands as he watched Astarion pace in the hall. 

Eventually, Astarion looked back up and said, “I’m going to my office to clear my head and update the prisoner files. Search the entire building—including the outside of it—for that Gangrel. Call in more of the other ghouls to help you. I can’t be bothered with any of this nonsense. If you don’t end up finding the Gangrel, it’ll be _you_ on the execution block in his place. I’m not taking the fall for his escape. Understand?”

Barely able to nod an affirmation, the ghoul dashed off to begin his search, leaving Astarion to trudge back to his office, tired and defeated by the night’s events. It all made him want to crawl back into his coffin, and the night had only begun a couple of hours ago. 

And to think, in a few moments, it would get worse. 

* * *

There was a knock on the door of Astarion’s office before it was opened without hesitation. The sheriff stopped digging through the files in a cabinet off to the side of the room to glance over at the door, expecting the ghoul to have returned with the Gangrel prisoner, but that would have been the ideal scenario, and Astarion’s unlife was never ideal.

“Violeta?” Astarion slammed the cabinet drawer shut and approached the woman with his hands on his hips, prepared for a hostile confrontation until he saw that she was dragging his childe with her on a chain leash affixed to his neck by an iron collar. “Elganon…”

Violeta put her hand to Astarion’s chest, blocking him from going past her to get to the young man. “It’s been too long, Astarion!” she said, yanking Elganon behind her back with a tug of the chain. “I found the new pet you’ve been keeping at Father’s mansion, and I thought I would take him out for a walk. He seemed like he needed one. He’s such a sad little puppy, isn’t he? Poor thing… Where did you find him and how did you convince Father to let you adopt him?”

“This is the last thing you want to hold over my head, Violeta.” Astarion’s hand shot forward to reach for the chain, but she moved her arm away as he was about to grasp it. “Give him to me. Right now!”

She stepped backward and moved her hands further down the chain, giving her captive only a couple of feet worth of slack. She wrapped an arm around the back of Elganon’s head, holding it close to her breast in feigned affection. All Elganon could do was stare at Astarion pleadingly, silently begging for rescue; whatever trance he was in before had waned.

“Answer my questions,” Violeta demanded calmly.

It took a great deal of willpower for Astarion to keep himself from leaping at her. He knew that just because her clan had a reputation of elegancy, it was unwise to underestimate a Toreador’s strength and cunning, and if he did overwhelm her, he would still lose. Cazador would have a meltdown if his daughter were harmed. Astarion would have to use diplomacy—the Ventrue specialty—to handle this matter, but he could barely think straight with how furious he was.

Astarion stepped behind his desk, which would serve as a meager barrier between himself and Violeta, and he leaned against it with his head tilted downward and his arms supporting him against the desk’s surface. “He is… _was_ a drug dealer. Cazador wanted me to go “handle” him because he was selling drugs to his ghouls unwittingly, and I was going to, but one thing led to another…”

Violeta laughed and held Elganon tightly in her arms. “ _This one_ is a drug dealer?”

Elganon pulled the arm that was now covering his mouth down so that he could speak. “He’s telling the truth.”

The woman frowned at him. “I don’t think I gave you permission to speak, little pup.” Elganon quieted down. “And how did you manipulate my father into letting _you_ , but not me, sire a childe, Astarion?”

“He didn’t,” the Ventrue confessed. “I did it behind his back after he denied me the privilege.”

“And he hasn’t punished you for it?”

Astarion gestured at Elganon. “What do you think Cazador’s been keeping him in a cellar for, Violeta? Because he’s a welcomed guest?”

While the Toreador was taking in the revelation, Elganon retrieved the vial from his back pocket and drank the whole thing down. He then grabbed the loose end of his chain that dangled from Violeta’s hands and struck her with it, throwing her off balance to give him the opportunity to sprint off. All Astarion saw was a blur of color exit his office—the potion temporarily granted his childe the power of Celerity.

“Elganon!” The sheriff hopped over his desk and peered out the doorway, seeing no one in the hall. “Elganon, come back!” He covered his forehead, suddenly ill with stress. “Two prisoners escaped in one night, and one of them is my _childe_. Goddamn it, Violeta! Cazador is going to have both our heads if we don’t find him! _You_ have Celerity. Go catch him!”

Violeta was still recovering, rubbing her skin where she’d been lashed, when Astarion had barked the command at her. “He’s _your_ responsibility!” she contended. “ _You_ go find him! Otherwise, I’ll…I’ll tell Father that _you_ are the one to blame! _You_ snuck him here, and all I did was try to bring him back to the manor! That’s what I’ll say!”

Fury twisted in Astarion’s gut. “You lying—”

He lost the will to argue. No amount of bickering would fix this, and his childe could wind up in danger with no one to look after him. Not to mention that the chain around Elganon’s neck, combined with the marking on his forehead, was going to draw a lot of unwanted Kine attention, and that could jeopardize the Masquerade. Now Elganon _really_ looked like an escaped cultist who was being kept in somebody’s basement. He could end up on a televised news broadcast if someone saw him like that.

Astarion grabbed his coat off the rack next to the door, threw it on, and ran down out of the courthouse in a hurry, screaming Elganon’s name.

Violeta covered her mouth and trembled slightly she fretted over how her father was going to react if Astarion returned empty-handed and it was discovered that the thin-blood was no longer in his cell.

This night couldn’t get any worse. Could it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "She will fast be outcast from her castle, with nary a friend."
> 
> Recommended Listening: In an Operetta by The Magnetic Fields


End file.
